George  Washington  Flowers 
Memorial  Collection 

DUKE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

ESTABLISHED  BY  THE 
FAMILY  OF 
COLONEL  FLOWERS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/poemstranslation01laza 


POEMS  AND  TRANSLATIONS. 


BY 

EMMA  LAZARUS. 


BETWEEN  THE  AGES  OF  FOURTEEN  AND  SIXTEEN. 


"  They  have  just  stolen  from  me  —  how  I  pity  thy  grief!  — 
All  my  manuscript  verse  ;  —  how  I  pity  the  thief  I  •' 

Epigram  from  Lebrun 


FEINTED  FOR  PRIVATE  CIRCULATION. 
1866. 


RIVEKSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 
Emma  Lazarus, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


i!T  1")  f  a  1 1]  c  r 


Decemeee  is.  lStJ5. 


CONTENTS. 
ORIGINAL  PIECES. 

PAGE 


In  Memokiam  .         .         .          .         .          .  .  1 

Eaded  Flowers  ......  4 

The  Echo       .......  6 

The  Sea-Queen's  Toilet         ....  8 

The  East  Indian  Girl       .          .         .          .  .11 

The  Casket  and  the  Elower           ...  14 

"IcH  Habe  Gelebt  und  Geliebt"         .          .  .16 

Something  to  Weep  Over      ....  17 

The  Holt  of  Holies         .          .         .         .  .18 

A  Cradle  and  a  Grave          ....  20 

Beginning  and  End  .          .          .          .          .  .22 

The  Broken  Toy          .....  23 

The  Lamp  of  the  Ganges  .         .          .         .  .25 

Links        .  .         .         .         .  .  .27 

Only  a  Dream         .          .          .          .          .  .28 

Brevet  Brigadier-General  Ered.  Winthrop       .  29 

April  27th,  1865        .          .          .          .          .  .31 

The  Mother's  Prayer  .....  34 

Un  Recuerdo .         .          .         .         .         .  .36 

Rest  at  Last      ......  38 

A  Lament  for  the  Summer          .          .          .  .40 

Niagara    .......  42 

Niagara  River  below  the  Ealls  .         .         .  .43 


vi 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Lucia  to  Edgardo        .....  45 

On  a  Lock  of  my  Mother's  Hair          .         .  .50 

Spring      ....  ...  52 

Eemember       .         .         .         .         .         .  .54 

Eomance    .         .         .         .  .         .  .56 

Daphne           .          .          .          .          .          .  .57 

Bertha      .          .          .          .  .          .          .  63 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Songs  from  Heinrich  Heine. 

The  Fisher  Maiden  121 

The  Lotus  Flower     .  -  ...  122 

A  Little  Star  fell  down  once,  etc.         .  .  .  122 

To  a  Star       .  .  .  .  .  .1^3 

Friendship,  Love,  and  Wisdom  ....  123 

My  Love's  Jewels     .....  123 

Say,  where  is  thy  little  Loved  One,"  etc.      .  .  124 

You  have  Merry  Friends,  etc.         .  .  .  125 

How  fragrant  breathes  the  Red  Carnation,  etc.  .  125 

Fleeting  Kisses,  etc.  .....  126 

The  Water-Lily  .  .  .  .  .  .126 

My  Songs  127 

The  Rose,  the  Lily,  the  Sun,  and  the  Dove  .  .127 
That  thou  lovest  me,  etc.      .  .  .  .127 

Atheism  of  Love  .....  128 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

Song  from  Alexandre  Dumas         .         .        '  .  129 

FROM  VICTOR  HUGO. 

Reassuring  Sight  ......  131 

To  Thee  !          .  .          .          .          •  .133 

Song    .         .  .  '      .         •         •         •  -136 

To  My  Daughter  .          .          .          .          .  138 


CONTEXTS .  vii 

PAGE 

What  the  Two  Cavaliers  were  Thixkixg-  of  ix  the 

Forest         ......  141 

At  Yillequier       .  .  .  .  .  1-44 

Three  Years  After  '  .         .         .         .         .  155 

Abide  ix  Hope         ......  161 

XiGHTS  IN  June  ......  164 

Etexixg  at  Sea      ......  165 

The  Eose  axd  the  Butterfly        .  .         .  171 

L^ExTOi  TO    ......  173 

To  A  W03IAX      ......  175 

To  E    176 

GCITARE     ......  .  178 

The  Streamlet  and  the  Ocean  ....  179 

To    ISO 

The  Bridge  .  .  .  .  .  .183 

To  King  Eouis-Philtppe        .  .  .  .      .  185 

Written  on  the  Toj.ib  of  a  Eittle  Child  by  the 

Sea-shore  .  .  .  .  .  .186 

OCEANO  Xos       .  .  .  .  .  .188 

The  Captive  .  .  .  .  .    •      .  192 

EovE        .......  195 

Song   ........  196 

"While  E!nocking  at  a  Door  .  .  .  197 

Vanity  .......  199 

Content  with  Thee  !  .  .  .         .  .  201 

Sunsets         .  .         .         .         .         .  .204 


POEMS. 


IX  AIEMOKIAAL 


J,  E. 


XE  bv  one  the  summer  flower 


^  She.  the  fairest  of  them  all. 

With  them  lyiug\ 
The  fi'esh  roses  from  her  cheeks 

Xovr  are  fled  : 
That  ToiTug  soul  is  early  uiimbered 

TTith  the  dead. 
Of  the  dying  summer-flowers 

She  was  fairest. 
For  in  her  were  sweetly  gathered 

All  the  rarest. 
Like  a  lily  fair,  her  sonl  was, — 

Pnre  and  white  : 
Eoses.  on  her  cheeks  so  dimpled. 

Blushed  all  bright. 
And  her  eyes  forget-me-nots  were, 
Full  of  feelino\  — 


2 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Woman's  strength  and  childish  freshness, 

Both  revealing. 
All  her  hopes  here,  now  are  scattered 

To  the  earth; 
Noiseless  are  the  halls  where  sounded 

Her  gay  mirth. 
And  in  our  hearts,  so  empty, 

Nought  is  there 
Save  the  shadow  of  her  sweetness,  — 

Memory  fair. 
Such  was  she,  our  lovely  flower, 

Faded  now; 
For  her  were  joy,  and  summer  sunshine. 

Wintry  snow. 
And  stern  misfortune's  nipping  blast. 

At  its  first  breath. 
Struck  down  the  blossom  and  consigned  it 

To  drear  Death. 
And  the  flowers  that  are  now  all 

Quickly  dying, 
At  the  blast  of  Autumn's  keen  breath, 

Lowly  lying, 
They  will  bloom  in  future  spring-times, 

Bright  as  ever. 
Budding  sweet  in  field  and  meadow, 

And  by  river. 
So  the  soul  of  that  fair  maid,  of 

Early  doom. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


3 


In  the  Spring*  of  heaven  above  will 
Once  more  bloom : 

Shining  brighter  than  in  days  here 
To  her  given,  — 

Beautitying  with  its  fairness 
God's  own  heaven. 


September  of/,  1863. 


FADED  FLOWERS. 

'Tis  but  two  faded  flowers,  that  have  lost  both 

hue  and  scent, — 
A  red  geranium -blossom,  with  its  loveliness  all 

spent, 

And  a  purple  modest  violet,  that  bloomed  be- 
neath the  sky. 

But  to  show  forth  all  its  beauty,  to  wither  and 
to  die. 

More  dear  to  me  than  life  itself  are  these  poor 
faded  flowers. 

And  oft  have  they  consoled  me  in  my  sad  and 
gloomy  hours ; 

Like  them,  I,  too,  have  faded,  since  her  spirit 
passed  away. 

And  my  weary  heart,  though  broken,  must  lin- 
ger day  by  day. 

You  ask  me  when  she  gave  them  ?  The  gera- 
nium when,  above. 


FADED  FLOWERS.  .  .  5 

The  moon  shone  bright  with  glory,  and  I  whis- 
pered her  my  love ; 

And  the  "s-iolet  so  faded,  that  my  tears  so  often 
lave. 

After  one  short  year  of  absence,  I  plucked  from 
ofP  her  grave. 

September,  1863. 


THE  ECHO. 


When  the  shadows  of  evening  fell  low  on  the 
earth, 

As  I  wearied  of  sadness,  yet  wished  not  for 
mirth, 

Then  I  climhed  the  steep  side  of  the  mount  old 
and  bare, 

Whose  dark,  slender  top  seemed  to  cleave  the 
blue  air. 

And  then  sadly  I  mused  on  the  death  of  my 
love, 

Looking  down  upon  forest,  and  meadow,  and 
grove. 

And  I  cried  with  a  passionate  burst  of  despair, 
"Where  again  can  I  see  her?   Oh,  tell  me  but 
where  ! 

But  the  merciless  heaven  my  cry  will  not  hear ! " 
Then  the  lone  mountain-echo  gave  answer,  — 
"Not  here." 

And  again  I  cried  forth,  all  my  soul  in  the  cry, 
To  the  mounts,  and  the  woods,  and  the  gold- 
tinted  sky, 


THE  ECHO. 


7 


"I  am  sad,  I  am  weary  of  all  this  world's  strife, 
And  I  yearn  to  meet  her  in  a  happier  life. 
Shall  I  e'er  see  again  my  youth's  hope,  my  one 
love  ? 

Oh,   now  answer,  ye   heavens,  that   smile  so 
above ! " 

And  the  lone  mountain-echo  gave  answer, — 
" Ahove ! " 


October  I'lth,  1863. 


THE  SEA-QUEEN'S  TOILET. 


Under  the  sea,  far  under  the  sea, 
In  the  emerald  depths  of  the  glorious  sea, 
Sits  the  Queen  of  the  Mermaids,  laughing  and 
singing. 

The  pearly  drops  out  of  her  golden  hair  wring- 

Weaving  them  all 

In  a  coronal, 
For  the  King  of  the  Ocean,  her  husband  to  be. 

Singing  she  weaves, 

And  her  fair  bosom  heaves 
With  laughter  and  song,  and  music  and  mirth, 
Happier  far  than  being  on  earth. 
There  does  she  sit  on  her  emerald  throne, 

Alone,  all  alone. 
Weaving  her  lord  a  coronal  bright 
Of  the  drops  from  Tier  hair,  so  pearly  and 
white. 

She  wearies  of  solitude,  laying  aside 
The  wreath   to  be  offered  to  husband  from 
bride. 


THE  SEA-QUEEX'S  TOILET. 


9 


And  now  dues  she  call. 

From  her  inner  hall, 

Her  mermaids  and  men. 
From  cdiamliers  and  halls  beyond  human  ken ; 

And  this  jovoiis  hand. 

Maids  and  yonths  hand  in  hand. 
At  the  feet  of  their  queen  throw  them  down, 
one  by  one ; 

Sure  never  was  seen  such  a  sight  meath  the 
sun. 

The  maidens  all  wear, 
In  their  long'  waving'  hair. 
Fairest  drops  of  pure  amber   and   opals  and 
pearls, 

That  peep  forth  in  beauty  from  out  their  long 
curls. 

And  some  have  bh;e  eyes. 

As  pure  as  the  skies ; 
And  some  have  deep  black,  or  voluptuous  brown. 
That  low  on  the  gem-scattered  ground  are  cast 
down. 

And  their  delicate  lips  are  so  fair  and  so  red. 

They  seem  as  if  stolen  from  some  coral  bed. 
And  the  lovely  Undines, 
And  the  sweet  river  queens, 
Are  so  dazzlingly  fair, 
As  they  bow  themselves  there, 
That  even  they  seem 
Too  bright  for  a  dream. 


10 


THE  SEA  QUEEN'S  TOILET. 


But  the  Queen  of  the  Mermaids  is  handsomer 
far 

Than  the  Undines 
Or  Queens, 

All  bright  as  they  are. 
And  now  they  all  deck 
With  jewels  her  neck ; 

Here  a  drop  of  pure  amber 

From  some  inner  chamber; 
There  a  diamond  rare 
On  her  shoulder  so  fair; 

And  her  arms  and  her  dresses, 

And  her  long  golden  tresses, 
All  glitter  and  shine 
With  the  spoils  of  the  mine. 
But  the  topaz,  so  fair, 
That  they  place  in  her  hair. 
Is  not  half  as  bright 
As  her  curls,  in  the  light 
Of  the  golden-green  sea. 
And  the  coral  they  haste 
To  put  in  her  waist, 
Is  not  as  red  or  as  small 
As  her  lips,  when  they  call 
To  her  maids  in  the  hall ; 

And  the  pearls  that  they  wreathe 
Round  her  fair  little  head. 

Are  eclipsed  by  her  teeth. 
With  their  frame  of  red. 

April  '20th,  1864. 


THE  EAST  INDIAN  GIRL. 


(ILLUSTRATION  OF  A  I'lCTURE.  ) 

Adowx  the  dark'ning  forest  glades 

There  fell  the  suu  with  slanting  beam, 

Right  through  the  leafy,  long  arcades. 
All  gladdening  with  dazzling  gleam. 

And  swift  athwart  the  deepest  shade 
There  came  one  golden  rav  of  sun, 

But  just  to  kiss  a  lovelv  maid 
Who  sat  upon  a  mossy  stone. 

Adown  it  came,  that  golden  thread, 

And  sported  in  her  jetty  hair  ; 
Then  deeped  her  mantle's  glowing  red, 

Then  touched  her  cheek,  and  lingered  there. 

All  low  the  pensiye  eye  was  cast, 
Half-hidden  by  the  silken  fringe; 

And  where  that  dark'ning  shadow  past 
There  was  a  softer,  loyelier  tinge. 


12 


THE  EAST  INDIAN  GIRL. 


The  ruby  lip  appeared  as  though 

'T  were  jealous  of  the  cheek's  rich  hue, 

But  gave  it  yet  a  fresher  glow, 

And  burned  with  added  beauty  too. 

Around  the  snowy  neck  was  strung 
A  dazzling  row  of  fairest  pearls. 

That  sought  in  vain,  from  where  they  hung, 
To  ripple  in  among  the  curls. 

Of  purest  white  a  garment  thin 
But  half-concealed  the  form  so  light, 

And  girdled  was  by  zone  of  green. 
With  flashing  jewels  studded  bright. 

Her  head  was  resting^  on  the  tree, 
That  bent  o'er  her  its  grateful  shade. 

Reclining  'gainst  it  listlessly, 

There  sat  and  dreamed  the  pensive  maid. 

Long,  long  she 'd  waited  —  all  in  vain, 
Upon  that  green  and  mossy  stone. 

Through  sunny  calm  and  beating  rain. 
Each  morning  and  each  eve  alone. 

Till  when  the  heat  of  day  was  strong. 
Or  night's  black  shadows  rose  and  fell  — 

For  one  who  swore  to  love  her  long. 
And  guard  her  tenderly  and  well. 


THE  EAST  IXDIAX  GIRL. 

And  morn  and  even  to  tliat  stone  • 
Thus  faithfully  she  went  for  years, 

Till  every  bright-winged  hope  had  flown, 
And  frozen  were  the  welling  tears. 

But  he  she  waited  ne'er  was  known, 
And  ne'er  her  fervent  love  repaid ; 

So,  underneath  the  mossy  stone 
They  laid  the  broken-hearted  maid. 

January  Sd,  1864. 


THE  CASKET  AND  THE  FLOWER. 


(THIRD  ACT  OF  "FAUST.") 

The  leaves  with  the  iiight-dew  are  drooping' 
and  wet, 

The  moon  has  arisen  on  high; 
But  there  in  her  garden  sits  Marguerite  yet, 

Nor  heeds  how  the  hours  flit  by. 

In  one  hand  a  violet  fair  does  she  hold, 
As  blue  as  her  own  truthful  eyes. 

And  a  burnished  and  dazzling  casket  of  gold 
In  the  other,  glittering,  lies. 

The  moonlight  a  tear  in  her  earnest  eye  shows 

As  she  looks  on  the  drooping  stem ; 
And  a  smile  o'er  a  blush,  like  the  sun  on  a 
rose, 

When  she  dwells  on  the  sparkling  gem. 

She  puts  in  the  waves  of  her  long,  golden  hair, 
The  violet,  saying,  "  Thou  art 


THE  CASKET  AND  THE  FLOWEH. 


15 


The  pledge  of  a  friend  who  is  loving  and  fair;" 
But  the  jewel  she  lays  on  her  heart. 

No  sound  is  breathed  forth  from  the  depths  of 
the  night, 

Xo  zephyr  is  borne  from  afar; 
But  a  black  cloud  comes  oyer  the  sky  so  bright, 

And  darkens  the  light  of  a  star. 

January  '11  th,  1SG4. 


"ICH  HABE  GELEBT  UND  GELIEBT.' 


Yes,  I  have  lived  tliroiigli.iiiany  weary  years 
Of  suffering,  and  grief,  and  endless  pain, 
And  little  joy,  and  bitter,  bitter  tears; 
And  all  my  darkened  life  lias  been  in  vain. 
For  w^hat  is  left  me  in  my  old  age  now  ? 
These  locks  of  snow. 

Yes,  I  have  loved,  and  madly  loved,  and  long, 
With  all  the  passion  of  a  woman's  loving, 
Through  joy  and  sorrow,  through  distrust  and 
wrong ; 

And  through  behoving,  and  through  unbehov- 
ing. 

And  now,  in  my  old  age,  what  is  my  part? 
A  broken  heart. 


July  mh,  1864. 


SOMETHING  TO  WEEP  OVER. 


'Tis  but  a  lock  of  golden  hair. 

Kept  from  the  years  of  long  ago, 
Just  to  recall  a  face  loved  well, 

Now  'ueatli  the  flowers  sleeping  low. 
To  press  it  once  more  to  my  heart  of  hearts ; 

To  kiss  it  for  her  in  her  long,  long  sleep  ; 
To  curl  it  once  more  in  its  form  of  old  ; 
To  gaze  at  it  fondly,  to  smile  and  weep. 

Little  have  I,  in  these  sad  years, 

E'en  to  recall  those  golden  days: 
Sometimes  a  strain  of  music  sweet, 

Sometimes  a  look  like  the  old  fond  gaze. 
So  ask  me  not  now  why  I  kiss  the  lock, 

^Tiy  hold  the  tress  in  my  day-dreams  and 
sleep ; 

'T  is  all  I  have  left-  o'er  which  I  can  smile, 
'T  is  all  I  have  left  o'er  wliich  I  can  weep. 

New  Brighton,  August  20th,  1864. 


2 


THE  HOLY  OF  HOLIES. 


Once  I  knew  a  little  cliapei, 

And  it  held  a  sacred  altar. 
And  before  it  e'er  I  trembled, 

While  my  footsteps  e'er  did  falter. 
Still  before  that  shrine  I  worshipped 

In  the  dark  night  and  the  day, 
Little  thinking  that  my  idol 

Was  but  wrought  of  fragile  clay. 
O'er  the  shrine  there  burned  a  taper 

Of  a  small,  but  dazzling  light, 
And  I  called  the  slender  taper 

Hope,  because  it  burned  so  bright. 
And  that  altar  I  had  builded 

To  a  maiden  young  and  fair. 
To  a  form  of  wondrous  beauty. 

With  a  halo  of  gold  hair; 
Like  a  pure  Madonna,  smiling 

Down  upon  me  from  above, 
While  I  ever  offered  incense 

At  the  altar  of  my  love. 


THE  HOLY  OF  HOLIES. 


And  I  deemed  that  form  of  beauty 
From  my  soul  would  ne'er  depart, 

For  the  maiden  was  my  idol, 
And  the  altar  was  my  heart. 

Now  I  know  a  little  chapel. 

And  it  holds  a  shattered  altar, 
And  before  it  e'er  I  tremble, 

While  my  weary  footsteps  falter. 
O'er  the  shrine  there  burns  a  taper 

Of  a  dim  and  fading  light. 
And  I  call  the  taper  Mem'ry, 

For  it  gleams  athwart  the  night 
With  a  pallid,  faint  reflection 

Of  the  ray  that  once  was  there, 
O'er  the  altar,  rudely  shattered. 

By  the  one  I  thought  so  fair. 
And  I  weep  before  my  altar 

Now,  with  prayerless  lips  apart. 
For  my  idol  now  is  broken. 

Like  my  mocked  and  ruined  heart. 

New  Brighton,  August,  1864. 


A  CRADLE  AND  .  A  GRAVE, 


See  this  little  empty  cradle 

Hung"  with  silk  all  draped  arouudy 
And  with  snowy  curtains  drooping 

Idly  over  to  the  ground. 
'T  is  so  lately  since  the  linen 

Bore  the  impress  of  the  form 
That  each  night  in  slumher  lay  there. 

And  the  pillow  yet  was  warm 
With  the  soft  and  gentle  pressure 

Of  the  rosy  velvet  cheek, 
With  the  coral  lips'  light  breathing, — 

Lips  not  formed  enough  to  speak. 
Not  to  earth's  sad  cares  and  trials 

Was  this  little  soul  here  doomed. 
For  the  fragile  bud,  unopened. 

Faded  e'en  before  it  bloomed. 

See  this  gentle  mound  here  rising, — 
Sigh  upheaved  by  earth's  sad  breast; 

Here  the  cypress  droops,  a  mourner 
O'er  a  baby  form  at  rest. 


A  CRADLE  AND  A  GRAVE. 


The  violets  have  not  blossomed, 

Xor  the  grass  begun  to  wave, 
jS'or  the  summer  sunshine  brightened, 

O'er  this  little  new-made  grave. 
And  the  snow  falls  fast  and  heayj, 

But  the  mound  is  not  yet  white, 
For  the  little  knoll  was  shapen 

In  this  bitter  winter  night. 
Earth  is  dreary,  man  is  feeble, 

And,  perchance,  't  is  better  so 
That  the  cradle  should  be  empty, 

And  a  full  grave  in  the  snow. 

September  2d,  1864. 


BEGINNING  AND  END. 

Just  enough  light  from  the  stars  and  the  moon 

To  see  my  beloved's  face, 
Out  in  the  blooming  garden  late. 

In  the  darkest,  fairest  place. 
Silver  and  beaming  the  full  round  moon 

On  that  little  golden  head, 
Like  a  halo  of  glory  on  sainted  maid 

Softly  and  tenderly  played. 

Just  enough  light  from  the  stars  and  the  moon 

To  see  a  low-shapen  mound 
Rising  up  soft  from  the  grassy  earth. 

With  blooming  flowerets  crowned. 
Silver  and  beaming  the  full  round  moon 

Makes  the  long  shadows  wave ; 
Bitterly  weeping  alone  I  sit 

By  my  beloved's  grave. 

February  'lid,  1865. 


THE  BROKEN  TOY. 


'T  IS  veiy  long  ago  now, 

I  was  a  little  boy, — 
I  had,  and  guarded  carefully, 

A  pretty  little  toy; 
A  golden  heart,  all  sparkling 

And  set  with  jewels  bright, 
With  opals  and  with  rubies, 

And  with  pearls  so  pure  and  white. 
I  saw  a  lovely  maiden 

With  SDiiling  lips  apart. 
And  rashly  did  I  give  her 

My  pretty  golden  heart. 
She  toyed  with  it  an  hour. 

So  gay  and  merrily; 
Up  in  the  dazzling  sunbeams 

She  tossed  it  playfully. 
And  with  her  tiny  foot,  then. 

She  crushed  and  broke  it  quite,  — 
My  golden  heart,  all  sparkling 

With  jewels  clear  and  bright. 


THE  BROKEN  TOY. 


Then  back  she,  careless,  gave  me 

My  Httle  broken  toy, 
With  i3retty  scornful  laughter, 

And  a  merry  childish  joy. 
Poor  heart,  all  crushed  and  broken, 

I 'm  weeping  o'er  it  yet ; 
Alas  !  the  lovely  maiden 

I  never  can  forget. 
'Tis  very  long  ago,  now, 

I  was  a  little  boy, — 
But  still  I 'm  weeping  sadly 

Over  my  broken  toy. 

March  1st,  1865. 


THE  LAMP  OF  THE  GANGES. 

[When  their  lovers  leave  them,  the  maids  of  the  Ganges  send 
out  lamps  on  the  river,  and  believe  the  former  faithless  if  the 
flame  is  extinguished  before  passing  out  of  sight.] 

Fragrant  and  moonless,  starry  and  bright, 
Lovely  and  cool,  is  the  summer  night; 
There 's  nothing  to  stir  the  silence  round 
Save  the  river's  low  and  rippling  sound; 
Each  little  wave  is  crowned  with  a  star, 
Brought  down  from  the  deep  blue  vault  afar. 
Through  the  black,  shadowy  waving  trees, 
Soft  and  low  whispers  the  evening  breeze. 
A  rustling  sound  is  borne  on  the  air. 
Quickly  darts  forward  a  maiden  fair. 
Swaying  and  graceful  her  figure  light, 
Jewelled  and  scented  her  garments  white. 
Long  silken  lashes  her  black  eyes  shade; 
Swiftly  she  breaks  through  the  tangled  glade. 
With  the  midnight  dew-drops,  cold  and  damp, 
Her  lingers  arch  o'er  a  burning  lamp. 
Gentle  and  noiseless  she  nears  the  stream. 
And  sends  o'er  the  waves  the  lamp's  bright 
gleam. 


26 


THE  LAMP  OF  THE  GANGES. 


Rising  and  falling,  it  floats  afar; 
Twinkling,  it  shines  like  a  golden  star. 
Fearful  and  trembling,  still  in  tlie  shade 
Watching  the  flame,  stands  the  fair  young  maid. 
It  flickers,  quivers,  then  burns  once  more ; 
Still  waits  the  maid  on  the  distant  shore. 
Sudden  it  pales  and  it  dies  away. 
And  vanished  now  is  the  last  bright  ray. 
Nought  on  the  stream  save  the  star's  pale  light, 
And  the  rising  moon  on  the  summer  night. 
No  sound  on  the  bank  save  a  gentle  sigh. 
That  dies  on  the  zephyr  floating  by. 
A  plunge  is  heard  from  the  river's  shore, — 
A  stir  in  the  waves,  and  all  is  o'er. 
Fragrant  and  moonlit,  starry  and  bright, 
Lovely  and  cool  is  the  summer  night. 
There 's  nothing  to  stir  the  silence  round 
Save  the  river's  low  and  rippling  sound. 

.  March  M,  1865. 


LINKS. 


The  little  and  the  great  are  joiued  iu  one 
By  God's  great  force.     The  ^YO^drous  golden 
Sim 

Is  linked  unto  the  glow-worm's  tiny  spark ; 
The  eagle  soars  to  heaven  in  his  flight ; 
And  in  those  realms  of  space,  all  bathed  iu 
light, 

Soar  none  except  the  eagle  and  the  lark. 

April  Qth,  1865. 


ONLY  A  DREAM. 


A  DREAM  of  glory  and  youth  and  faith, 
And  a  love  that  should  last  through  life  and 
death. 

A  dream  of  a  face  with  violet  eyes, 
And  a  smile  of  a  tender,  sweet  surprise. 
With  a  golden  frame  of  wavy,  soft  hair, 
Of  a  maiden  at  once  both  pure  and  fair. 
A  glorious  dream,  while  erst  it  did  last, 
That  illumined  so  brightly  all  my  past, — 
A  dream  that  was  lighted  by  Hope's  bright 
gleam. 

Through  golden  days,  —  but  only  a  Dream. 

September  ISth,  1864. 


BREVET  BRIGADIER-GENEEAL  FRED. 
WINTHROP. 

KILLED  AT  THE  BATTLE  OF  FIVE  FORKS,  APRIL   1,  1865. 

MoEE  hearts  will  break  than  gladden  wlieu 

The  bitter  struggle's  past; 
The  giant  form  of  Victory  must 

A  giant's  shadow  cast. 

The  shadow  only  can  we  see, 

Through  blinding  mists  of  tears; 

God  sees  the  dazzling  light  that  will 
Illumine  future  years. 

Bloom,  flowers,  with  early  blossoms  fair, 

Above  his  narrow  bier ! 
Weep,  dawn,  your  saddest  tears  of  dew 

For  him  who  slumbers  here  ! 

Shine  out,  ye  little  silver  stars. 

Like  tearful,  weeping  eyes  ! 
Sing,  birdlings  fair,  his  praises  now, 

And  bear  them  to  the  skies  ! 


30     BRIGADIER-GENEEAL  FRED.  WINTHROP. 


Weep,  maidens,  o'er  him  resting  here 
In  his  long,  dreamless  sleep ! 

Alas !  the  saddest  of  ye  all 
Is  she  who  cannot  weep. 

April  12th,  1865. 


APRIL  27th,  1865. 


"  Oh,  where  can  I  lay  now  my  aching  head  ? " 
The  weary-worn  fugitive  sadly  said. 
"I  have  wandered  in  pain  all  the  sleepless 
night, 

And  I  saw  my  pursuers'  distant  light 
As  it  glared  o'er  the  river's  waves  of  blue, 
And  flashed  forth  again  in  each  drop  of  dew. 
I 've  wandered  all  night  in  this  deadly  air. 
Till,  sick'ning,  I  drop  with  pain  and  despair." 

Go  forth!   Thou  shalt  have  here  no  rest  again, 
For  thy  brow  is   marked  with  the  brand  of 
Cain. 

"  I  am  weary  and  faint  and  ill,"  said  he, 
And  the  stars  look  down  so  mercilessly  \ 
Do  ye  mock  me  with  your  glittering  ray, 
And  seek,  like  the  garish  sun,  to  betray? 
Oh,  forbear,  cruel  stars,  so  bright  and  high; 
Ye  are  happy  and  pure  in  God's  own  sky. 
Oh,  where  can  I  lay  me  now  down  to  slee]). 
To  rest  and  to  slumber,  to  pray  and  weep  ? " 


32 


APRIL  27TH,  1865. 


Go  forth !   Thou  shalt  have  here  no  rest  again, 
For  thy  brow  is  marked  with  the  brand  of 
Cain. 

"  To  sleep !    What  is  sleep  now  but  haunting 

dreams  ? 

Chased  oiF,  every  time,  by  the  flashing  gleams 
Of  the  light  o'er  the  stream  in  yonder  town, 
Where  all  are  searching  and  hunting  me  down ! 
Oh,  the  wearisome  pain,  the  dread  suspense. 
And  the  horror  each  instant  more  intense! 
I  yearn  for  rest  from  my  pain  and  for  sleep, — 
Bright  stars,  do  ye  mock,  or,  quivering,  weep  ? " 

Go  forth !   Thou  shalt  have  here  no  rest  again. 
For  thy  brow  is  marked  with  the  brand  of 
Cain. 

On  the  marsh's  grass,  without  pillow  or  bed, 
Fell  the  rain  and  dew  on  his  fated  head; 
While  the  will-o'-the-wisp,  with  its  changeful 

light. 

Led  him  on  o'er  the  swamp  in  the  darksome 
night ; 

And  all  Nature's  voices  cried  out  again. 
To  the  weary  fugitive  in  his  pain, — 

Go  forth !   Thou  shalt  have  here  no  rest  again, 
For  thy  brow  is  marked  with  the  brand  of 
Cain. 


APKIL  27TH,  1865. 


33 


The  pursuers  are  near  !    Oh,  bitter  strife  ! 
Youth,  more  strong  than  despair,  still  clings  to 
life. 

More  near  and  more  near !    They  find  him  at 
last; 

One  desperate  struggle,  and  all  is  past, — 
One  desperate  struggle,  'mid  smoke  and  flame. 
For  life  without  joy,  and  darkness  and  shame. 
A  prayer  ascends  to  high  Heaven's  gate 
For  his  soul,  —  0  God,  be  it  not  too  late ! 
A  ball  cleaves  the  air.  ...  He  is  lying  there, 
Pale,  stiff,  and  cold  in  the  fresh  morning  air; 
And  the  flames'  hot  breath  is  all  stifled  now. 
And  the  breezes  caress  his  marble  brow. 

All  sorrow  has  gone  with  life's  fitful  breath. 
Rest  at  last !    For  thy  brow  bears  the  seal  of 
Death. 

April  29th,  1865. 

3 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 


Oh,  let  me  go  weep  on  his  flowerless  grave ! 
I  will  go  in  the  night,  the  rain,  or  the  storm ; 
The  perils  of  gloom  and  of  darkness  I'll  brave, 
To  watch  and  to  weep  o'er  that  well-beloved 
form . 

Ay,  more  than  the  night,  I  will  go  in  the  sun, 
When  my  anguish  and  grief  are  seen  by  each 
one ! 

Oh,  break  not  thus  rudely  life's  holiest  ties. 
Let  the  mother  now  know  where  the  fated  son 
lies. 

He  needs   so    much   prayer  in  his  untimely 
sleep,  — 

None  will  pray  !    He  needs  tears,  —  there 's  no 

one  will  weep  ! 
Oh,    tell    me,    where    rises    that  misshapen 

mound  ? 

I  will  pray  and  will  weep  on  the  cold,  clayey 
ground. 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 


35 


I  would  give  all  the  joy  of  my  happiest  years 
To  go  there  and  shed  these  my  bitterest  tears. 

I  would  go  to  his  victim's  revered,  honored 
tomb, 

And  beg,  of  that  merciful  heart  in  the  gloom, 
His  pardon  and  pity,  —  lie  would  not  refuse  ! 
And  then  would  I  haste,  in  the  night's  deadly . 

dews. 

And  whisper  it  soft  to  my  doomed  son,  all  low. 
By  my  tears,   ever  watered,   bright  blossoms 

might  gTOW,  — 
Sweet  tlowers  that  over  his  grave  would  arise. 
To  show  that  God  knows  where  the  fated  one 

lies. 

May  Ut/i,  1865.  • 


UN  RECUERDO. 


I  SAW,  long  ago,  in  the  fleeting  dance. 

That  beautiful  maid, 
With  her  flashing  eyes,  and  their  poisoned 
glance 

.    'Neath  the  lashes'  shade. 

Ah,  lovely  she  was  then,  and  fair  to  see, 

With  her  tiny  feet. 
That  moved  to  the  cadence,  gracefully, 

Of  the  music  sweet. 

She  smiled  as  she  swayed  in  the  giddy  dance, — 
Ah,  those  golden  hours !  — 

And  she  threw  me,  in  merry,  girlish  joy, 
Some  pale  purple  flowers. 

Ay,  gentle  Peplta  was  fair  to  see. 

In  the  mystic  dance, — 
With  her  sable  hair,  with  its  rippling  waves, 

And  her  piercing  glance. 


UN  EECUERDO. 


37 


But  I  weep  when  I  think  of  Pepita  now. 

As  she  stood  that  day, 
And  my  sad  thoughts  back  to  that  happy  time 

Now  evermore  stray. 

Wliere  the  frowning  and  dark  Sierra  high 

Shades  the  lowly  vale, 
There 's  a  snowy  stone  that  coveretli  now 
,  The  fair  and  the  frail; 

And  a  marble  cross,  that  shadows  her  form 

In  sun  and  in  showers ; 
And  over  the  cross  there  are  ever  wreathed 

Some  pale,  purple  flowers. 

May  Uth,  1865.  • 


REST  AT  LAST. 


"Yet  a  little  sleep,  a  little  slumber,  a  little  folding  of 
hands  to  sleep."  —  Proverbs  xxiv.  33. 

When  all  joy  is  cold  and  dead, 

And  our  youth  and  smiles  are  fled; 

When  our  dreams  all  fade  in  air. 

And  hope  cliangeth  to  despair ; 

When  our  heart  grows  worn  and  cold, 

Ere  our  weary  years  be  told ; 

When  we,  yearning,  long  for  sleep. 

And  our  eyes  can  only  weep ; 

Wlien  we  traverse,  all  in  tears. 

The  drear  desert  of  our  years, 

Seeking  ever  some  sweet  spot 

To  repose,  and  find  it  not; 

When  we  're  weary,  faint,  and  worn. 

And  our  heart  is  sorely  torn  ; 

When  the  sun's  hues  linger  yet, 

And  we  muse  but  on  suns  set; 

When  we  dream,  in  Spring's  glad  hours 

But  of  those  beneath  her  flowers ; 


REST  AT  LAST. 


When  a  faded  bud  is  worth 

More  than  fairest  one  on  earth  ; 

AVlien  but  sad  strains  can  beguile, 

And  awake  a  flitting-  smile ; 

When  all  forms  that  meet  our  gaze 

Only  bring  us  back  past  days ; 

When  with  fate  in  vain  we  cope, 

And  have  nought  in  life  to  hope  ; 

Wlien  we  'd  rest  our  weary  head, 

And  have  nought  in  death  to  dread  ;  — 

Then,  to  bury  the  dead  Past, 

The  sweet  slumber  comes  at  last. 

No  closed  eyes  can  ever  weep. 

And  we  bless  the  little  sleep, 

And  the  gentle  slumber  soft 

That  we 've  yearned  for,  long-  and  oft, 

Through  the  hours'  lingering  sands. 

All  earth's  sighs  are  now  repress'd. 

In  our  worn  and  weary  breast. 

By  the  folding  of  the  hands. 

By  the  folding  o'er  the  breast. 

And  to  peace  and  calm  and  rest. 

Freed  from  woes  and  want  and  breath, 

Float  we  down  the  stream  of  Death. 


June  mh,  1865. 


A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  SUMMER. 

Oh,  we  mourn  thee,  lovely  Summer, 

As  thou  liest  on  thy  bier, — 
As  we  see  thy  blossoms  faded. 

And  thy  leaflets  pale  and  sere. 
All  thy  long"  warm  days  so  peaceful, 

With  their  golden  sunsets  crowned, 
When  thy  roses  blushed  in  blooming. 

Spreading  perfume  wide  around. 
All  thy  tranquil,  happy  evenings, 

Wlien  thy  moon  rose  proud  and  cold, 
Like  a  queen,  in  robes  of  silver, 

Midst  the  twinkling  stars  of  gold. 
When  she  rose  and  flung  a  garment 

O'er  the  earth,  of  ermine  fair, 
Whitest  lights  and  blackest  shadows, 

In  the  Summer  night's  blue  air. 
When  the  little,  gleaming  starlets, 

In  the  fields  of  heaven  God  sets. 
Were  like  dew-drops,  brightly  sparkling 

On  a  bed  of  violets. 


A  LA^rEXT  FOR  THE  SUMMER. 


41 


Xow.  oil  fair  and  lovely  Summer, 

Thou  art  lying  in  thy  tomb  : 
Xought  can  come  save  gaudy  Autumn 

That  must  die  in  Winter's  gloom. 
Thou  art  gone  with  all  thy  flowers, 

Thou  hast  faded  in  the  Past; 
Far  too  lovely  here  to  linger, 

Far  too  beautiful  to  last. 
Yet  thou,  too,  had  'st  days  of  sadness. 

Sighing  winds  and  dropping  rain ; 
^^Tiy  did'st  mourn,  gay-seeming  Summer  ? 

What  could  give  thee  cause  for  pain  ? 
Xone  on  earth  can  ever  know  it. 

And  thy  secret  none  can  tell,  — 
Save,  perhaps,  the  sobbing  ocean, 

And  the  birds  that  sing  farewell. 

September  2d,  1865. 


NIAGARA. 


Thou  art  a  giant  altar,  where  the  Earth 
Must  needs  send  up  her  thanks  to  Him  above 
Who  did  create  her.    Nature  cometh  here 
To  lay  its  offerings  upon  thy  shrine. 
The  morning  and  the  evening  shower  down 
Bright  jewels,  —  changeful  opals,  em'ralds  fair. 
The  burning  noon  sends  floods  of  molten  gold, 
The  calm  night  crowns  thee  with  its  host  of 
stars. 

The  moon  enfolds  thee  with  her  silver  veil. 
And  o'er  thee  e'er  is  arched   the  rainbow's 
span, — 

The    gorgeous    marriage-ring   of   Earth  and 
Heaven. 

While  ever  from  the  holy  altar  grand 
Ascends  the  incense  of  the  mist  and  spray, 
That  mounts  to  God  with  thy  wild  roar  of 
praise. 

Clifton-House,  Niagara  Falls,  Canada, 
August  24:th,  1865. 


NIAGARA  RIVER  BELOW  THE  FALLS. 


Flow  on  forever,  in  thy  tranquil  sleep, 
Thou  stream,  all  wearied  by  thy  giant  leap  ; 
Flow  on  in  quiet  and  in  peace  fore'er, 
No  rocky  steep,  no  precipice  is  there. 

The  rush,  the  roar,  the  agony  are  past; 
The  leap,  the  mighty  fall,  are  o'er  at  last; 
And  now  with  drowsy  rippling-s  dost  thou  flow. 
All  murmuring  in  whispers  soft  and  low. 

Oh,  tell  us,  shimb'ring,  em'rald  river,  now, 
With  that  torn  veil  of  foam  upon  thy  brow; 
Now,  while  thou  sleepest  quietly  below, — 
What   are  thy  dreams  ?     Spent  river  let  us 
know. 

Again,  in  thought,  dost  dash  o'er  that  dread 
steep. 

By  frenzy  maddened  to  the  fearful  leap? 
By  passion's  mists  all  blinded,  cold  and  white. 
Dost  plunge  once  more,  now,  from  the  dizzy 
height  ? 


44       NIAGARA  RIVER  BELOW  THE  FALLS. 

Or  else,  forgetful  of  the  dangers  past, 

Art  dreaming  calm  and  peacefully,  at  last, 

Of  that  fair  nymph  who  pressed  thy  liv^d  hrow,  ^ 

And  gave  thy  past  a  glory  vanished  now? 

The  Bainhow,  whom  the  royal  Sun  e'er  wooes. 
For  whom,  in  tears,  the  mighty  Storm-king 
sues; 

Who  left  her  cloud-built  palace-home  above, 
To  crown  thy  awful  brow  with  light  and  love. 

Yes,  in  thy  tranquil  sleep,  oh,  wearied  stream, 
Still  of  the  lovely  Iris  is  thy  dream ; 
The  agony,  the  perils  ne'er  could  last; 
But  with  all  these  the  rainbow,  too,  has  past. 

No  life  so  wild  and  hopeless  but  some  gleam 
Doth  lighten  it,  to  make  a  future  dream. 
Thy  course,  0  Stream,  has  been  mid  fears  and 
woe. 

But  thou  hast  met  the  Rainbow  in  thy  flow. 


New  York,  November  Sd,  1865. 


LUCIA  TO  EDGARDO. 


Yes,  I  have  loved  tliee,  oh,  thou  First  and 
Only ! 

Who  ever  from  my  heart  these  humbled  words 
hath  drawn. 

And  what  has  been  my  life?  A  desert  lonely, — 
A  black  and  starless  night,  that  knew  no  other 
dawn 

Than  death,  —  a  hopeless,  agonizing  lot : 
For  what  meant  joy  and  life  where  thou  wert 
not? 

•  Edgardo! 

How  oft,  in  dreams,  my  last  heart-rending  scene 
with  thee 

I  yiew  again.    The  waxen  tapers'  mellow  light. 
Brightening  all  that  hall  of  fatal  revelry; 
The  bridal  maidens  round  me  in  their  robes  of 
white ; 

And  my  stern  father  sacrificing  me 
To  long-forgotten  feuds  of  family. 

And  I,  so  pale  and  trembling  all,  a  death-like 
bride. 


46  LUCIA  TO  EDGARDO. 

Amidst  the  scene  of  siicli  fell  mockeiy  to  me; 
Wlien  lo !   the  crimson  curtain  slowly  waved 
aside, 

And  cold,  reproachful,  oh,  Edgardo,  I  saw  thee; 
Thy  love  to  hate  distorted  on  thy  face. 
Where  scorn  of  tenderness  had  ta'en  the  place. 

Nor  would'st  thou  e'en  regard  the  passionate 
despair 

Felt  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  and  written  on  my 
face; 

But  with  thy  storm  of  hate  lashed  her,  once 

thought  so  fair; 
And  pitilessly  saw  the  form,  once  deemed  all 

grace. 

Quiver  and  fall,  all  death-like,  at  thy  feet; 
My  bridal-robe,  my  rent  heart's  winding-sheet. 

And  then  I  knew  no  more ;  and  when  I  woke 
again. 

Oh,  thou,  my  love,  hadst  gone  forever,  ever- 
more, 

And  I  awoke  to  agony  and  tears  and  pain; 
And  dark  Despair  her  mantle  spread  my  whole 
life  o'er; 

And  all  my  days  had  changed,  and  hope  was 
dead ; 

And  all  the  joy  of  years  to  come  had  fled. 


LUCIA  TO  EDCrAEDO 


47 


And  now.  again.  I  feel  a  sudden  thrill  of  joy : 
For  I  am  dying.  love,  and  I  shall  meet  thee 
soon. 

I  would  that  I  could  see  once  more  on  earth, 
thy  form. 

But  no  I  tlie  sun  dies,  too ;  and  with  the  risings 
moon 

I  shall  have  passed  to  other,  brighter  spheres, 
And  other  lips  will  tell  thee  of  my  tears. 

They  tell  me,  oh,  my  love,  I  oft  have  raved  of 
thee. 

And  wandered,  all  regardless  of  their  tears  and 
pain, 

With  mad  appeals  to  thee,  and  looks  of  va- 
cancy. 

And  senseless  words  of  love,  and  crazed  and 

Vy-ildered  hraiu : 
And.  in  my  frenzy,  I  would  ciy  to  thee. 
And  beg  thee  to  rettirn.  on  bended  knee. 

I   might  have  better  borne  through  life  thy 
awful  hate. 

Edgardo,   than   I   bore    thy   silence   and  thy 
scorn. 

Oh.   scorn   me   not,   but   love   me,   love  me, 

though  so  late : 
I,  dying,  rise,  and  wild,  beseech  thee  to  return. 


48 


LUCIA  TO  EDGARDO. 


And  I  shall,  with  my  woe,  thy  stern  heart  move. 
Return,  and  love  me  with  the  old  fond  love ! 

* 

Once  more  I  rave !  —  Now  all  delirium  is  past. 
And  I,  Edgardo,  will  not  ask  again  thy  love ; 
And  though  I  would  caress  and  love  thee  to 
the  last, 

I  would  not  with  my  grief  thy  heart,  my  loved 
one,  move. 

I  would  not  now  reproach  thee  with  my  fate. 
Though  I  have  heen  so  sad  and  desolate. 

And  now,  I  will  not  send  thee  e'en  a  lock  of 
hair 

To  cluster  round  thy  heart-strings  and  recall 
my  woe; 

For  thou,  too,  wilt  forgive,  when  all  my  dread 
despair, 

And  tears  and  grief  and  love,  Edgardo,  thou 
dost  know. 

I  will  not  leave  to  thee  such  mem'ries  vain, — 
Bequeath  thy  heart  such  fearful,  needless  pain. 

No,  I  will  send  to  thee  no  more,  save  one  last 
friend. 

Beside  me  now,  to  tell  thee  all  my  misery. 
And  let  thee  know  my  faith,  e'en  to  the  dark, 
sad  end. 


LUCIA  TO  EDGARDO. 


49 


And  how  I  still  could  love  tlirougli  all  mine 
agony. 

So,  with  the  sunlight  on  me,  as  I  lie, 
I  can  forgive  thee,  love,  forgive  and  die, 

Edgardo. 

My  im,  1864. 

4 


ON  A  LOCK  OF  MY  MOTHER'S  HAIR. 

In  looking  o'er  the  souvenirs 
Of  days  when  I  was  young, 

I  found  a  lock  of  silver  hair 
The  tokens  dear  among. 

And,  like  a  hright  connecting  link, 
That  lock  recalled  the  Past, 

And  brought  me  saddening  memories, 
And  sweet  thoughts  crowding  fast. 

For  well  did  I  remember  me, — 
When  that  dear  lock  was  bright 

With  mellow  gold,  of  sunny  tint. 
That  changed  in  every  light. 

And,  then,  the  shade  of  earthly  cares 
Touched,  e'er  with  saddening  hand, 

The  little  tress,  until  it  soon 
Became  this  silver  band. 


ON  A  LOCK  OF  MY  MOTHER'S  HAIR. 

And  pray  I  now  that  Sorrow  may. 
Whene'er  she  comes  to  me. 

But  change  my  heart's  now  golden  joy 
To  silver's  purity. 

And  pray  I,  that  though  to  my  heart 
Earth's  saddest  woes  are  given, 

They  may  hut  tint  with  purer  ray, 
And  make  it  worthy  heaven. 

December,  1863. 


SPRING. 


The  cold  white  snow  has  faded  fast, 
And  stilled  now  is  the  wintry  blast. 
Where  erst  it  lay,  that  cold,  dull  snow, 
The  pale-pink  primrose  now  doth  blow, 
With  meekness  blushing,  in  the  wood, 
The  first  of  her  fair  sisterhood. 

The  runlet's  icy  chains  are  burst; 
He  flows  in  joy  and  peace  at  first. 
Then,  babbling,  sports  in  merry  glee, 
And  sings  aloud  at  being  free. 
And  whispers  to  the  sprouting  grass, 
"  Come,  weave  a  carpet  where  I  pass." 

The  violets,  tinted  like  the  sky. 

Seem  freshly  fallen  from  on  high. 

And  bloom  in  every  shady  nook. 

Fair  Spring,  through  those  blue  eyes,  doth  look 

Upon  the  gladsome,  happy  earth. 

To  which  she  bringeth  joy  and  mirth. 


SPRING. 


63 


Midst  purple  clover  graze  the  herds, 

Midst  fresh  greeu  branches  sing  the  birds. 

And  now,  the  heart,  too,  groweth  gay, 

Throws  off  old  sorrows  day  by  day, 

And  praiseth  God  with  gladness  rife 

For  Spring,  and  flowers,  and  earth,  and  life. 

January  2od,  1866. 


REMEMBER. 


"  Remember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth ;  while 
the  evil  days  come  not,  nor  the  years  draw  nigh  when  thou  shalt 
say,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  them.^'  —  Ecdesiastes  xii.  1. 


Kemember  Him,  tlie  Only  One, 

Now,  ere  the  years  flow  by, — 
Now,  while  the  smile  is  on  thy  lip, 

The  light  within  thine  eye. 
Now,  ere  for  thee  the  sun  have  lost 

Its  glory  and  its  light. 
And  Earth  rejoice  thee  not  with  flowers, 

Nor  with  its  stars  the  Night. 
Now,  while  thou  lovest  Earth,  because 

She  is  so  wondrous  fair 
With  daisies  and  with  primroses. 

And  sunlit,  waving  air; 
And  not  because  her  bosom  holds 

Thy  dearest  and  thy  best. 
And  some  day  will  thyself  enfold 

In  calm  and  peaceful  rest. 
Now,  while  thou  lovest  violets. 

Because  mid  grass  they  wave, 


EEMEMBER. 


And  not  because  tliey  bloom  upon 

Some  early-sbapen  grave. 
Now,  while  thou  lovest  trembling  stars, 

But  just  because  tliej  shine, 
And  not  because  they're  nearer  one 

Who  never  can  be  thine. 
jSTow,  while  thou  lovest  music's  strains, 

Because  they  cheer  thy  heart, 
And  not  because  from  aching  eyes 

They  make  the  tear-drops  start. 
Now,  while  thou  lovest  all  on  earth, 

And  deemest  all  will  last. 
Before  thy  hope  has  vanished  quite, 

And  eveiT  joy  has  past. 
Kemember  Him,  the  Only  One, 

Before  the  days  draw  nigh 
When  thou  shalt  havQ  no  joy  in  them. 

And  praying,  yearn  to  die. 

Januanj  20tli,  1866. 


ROMANCE. 


C'etait  au  mois  de  Mai, 

Je  te  voyais,  mon  amour, 
Et  la  Nature  souriait, 

Tu  me  parlais  bas  ee  jour. 
Les  ondes,  les  roses,  les  fleurs, 

Et  les  oiseaux  dans  leur  nid, 
Ecoutaient  tous,  ee  jour, 

Le  mot  que  tu  m'as  dit. 
Mais  e'est  aujourd'hui  I'hiver, 

Je  ne  vois  plus  mon  amour, 
Et  la  Nature  tristement  pleure, 

Tu  as  oublie  ee  jour. 
Les  roses,  les  violettes, 

Sout  effeuillees  par  les  vents, 
L'oiseau  a  fui  son  nid, 

Et  vainement  je  t'attends. 
Car  tu  m'as  parle  bas, 

Ce  jour  que  Dieu  benit, 
Mais  ton  coeur  deja  oublie, 

Ce  que  tes  l^vres  ont  dit. 

January^  1866. 


DAPHXE. 


Daphxe,  the  fair  one,  with  the  sea-blue  eyes, 
Aud  rich  gold  locks  upon  her  shoulders  pure, 
Ambrosial,  bright,  aud  loug  as  Here's  owu, 
Aud  cheeks  iu  color  like  the  Spriug's  first  rose. 
All  shaded  iuto  soft  aud  meltiug  piuk. 
As  relvety  aud  smooth  as  is  the  peach, 
Aud  dimpliug  like  the  Oceau's  suu-kissed  waves; 
With  perfect-moulded  limbs  aud  sleuder  form, — 
The  lovely  daughter  of  the  river-god,  — 
"Was  pierced  by  Cupid,  that  youug  archer  bold, 
Pierced  throuo-li  the  heart  with  arrow  thick  aud 
bluut, 

Aud  tipped  with,  dark  aud  heavy  leadeu-poiut, 

That  deadeued  her  to  love's  most  foud  caress. 

Apollo,  with  the  dazzliug,  suuuy  locks, 

Waviug  iu  glorious  curls  above  his  brow, 

Diviuely-lit  with  geuius  of  a  god, 

Beuevoleut,  sereue,  aud  beautiful, — 

Apollo,  beuder  of  the  silver  bow, 

Apollo,  player  of  the  goldeu  harp, 

God  of  the  Suu,  aud  fairest  of  the  gods, 

Was  pierced  by  Cupid,  that  youug  archer  bold, 


58 


DAPHNE. 


Pierced  through  the  heart  with  arrow  fine  and 
sharp, 

And  tipped  with  bright  and  lightsome  golden 
point, 

That  wakened  him  to  love's  sweet  influence. 
So  thus  it  chanced,  the  Sun-god  loved  the  maid, 
Apollo  loved  fair  Daphne,  chaste  and  pure. 
And  sought  her  with  the  longings  of  desire; 
But  she  repelled  him  with  cold  haughtiness, 
And  fled  him,  vritli  the  blush  upon  her  cheek, 
In  emulation  of  proud  Cynthia. 
He  saw  her,  in  her  beauteous  maidenhood, 
Standing  beside  the  blue  and  limpid  stream 
Wliere  dwelt  the  river-god,  old  Peneus, 
And  burned  at  once  with  an  imperious  love, 
That  bore  him  onward  irresistibly, 
And  with  one  spring  he  darted  toward  the  maid. 
To  seize  her  in  his  eager,  trembling  arms. 
But  Daphne,  quivering  with  maiden-fear. 
And  kindling  to  her  locks  with  maiden-shame, 
Sprang  forward,  too,  adown  the  flowering  glen,  — 
A  sun-ray  o'er  the  mountain-shadowed  vale. 
Swift  as  the  wind,  she  darted  from  his  grasp, 
And  fled  from  him,  while  he  pursued  her  form. 
And  followed  her  adowai  the  shadowed  vale, 
All  through  the  flowering  glen,  as  swift  as 
light. 

Forward  impelled,  her  quick  feet  winged  by 
fear, 


DAPHNE. 


59 


Her  tresses  blown  around  her  blushing"  face, 
^    Her  rosy  feet  scarce  brushing  from  the  grass 
The  filmy  dew-drop  that  there  lightly  hung; 
Her  sea-blue  eyes  wet  with  a  mist  of  tears, 
Her  mouth  half-oped,  like  a  pomegranate  cleft, 
Panting,  with   heaving   breast   and  wearying 
feet, 

She    sprang    and    fled    through    shadow  and 

through  shine. 
And  quickly  after  her  the  glorious  god. 
His  large  eyes  lustrous,  longing-ftill  of  love. 
Upon  his  back  the  glittering  silver  bow. 
Within  his  hand  the  magic  golden  harp, 
And  round  his  brow  the  halo  of  sun-rays, — 
Swift  darted  through  the  shadow  and  the  shine. 
So  these  two  flee.    She  cries,  "  Oh,  help  me, 

Jove ! 

Help  me,  oh,  chaste  Diana,  whom  I  love ; 
Save  me  and  help  me ! "  T\Tiile  he  loudly  cries, 

Oh,  why  dost  flee  so  swiftly.  Daphne  fair "? 
Jove  is  my  father,  and  the  sovereign  lord 
Am  I  of  Delphos  and  of  Tenedos, 
The  god  of  the  bright  sun,  the  god  of  song. 
Hold !  I  will  glorify  thy  days  with  light. 
And  I  will  woo  thee  with  my  sweetest  song." 
But  still  she  flees,  nor  listens  to  his  plaint. 
He  nears  her  now,  he  gains  upon  her  steps. 
Love,  ardent,  hopeful,  doth  outrun  Despair. 
More  near,  more  near,  he  touches  her  at  last, 


60 


DAPHNE. 


His  breath  is  on  her  cheek  and  on  her  hair; 
Her  trembling  limbs  scarce  hold,  her  on  the 
earth, 

But  that  his  arm  supports  her  drooping  form. 
"  Oh,  help  me,  Peneus,  Dian ! "  loud  she  cries. 
And  suddenly  all  rigid  doth  she  grow ; 
A  tender  bark  surrounds  her  heaving  breast, 
Her  flowing  hair  becomes  fair  laurel  leaves, 
Her  arms  are  branches,  and  her  face  hath  gone, 
And  beauty,  now,  is  all  of  her  that 's  left. 
Apollo  kisses  oft  the  shrinking  bark. 
Caressing  the  fair,  tender  trembling  leaves. 
And  cries,  "Thou  shalt  be  evermore  my  crown, 
And  thy  green  leaf  shall  never  know  decay." 
So  saying,  on  the  yielding  branches  fair. 
He  hangs  his  silver  bow  and  golden  harp. 
And  each  leaf  flutters  as  it  murmurs  thanks. 

February  12th,  1866. 


BERTHA. 

'■OX  A  TOUJOURS  SOUITZRT,  OU  BUS  OX  SOmRrRA.-- 


s 


BERTHA. 


"  On  a  toujours  souffert,  ou  bien  on  souffrira/'  — Victor  Hugo. 

WEET  BERTHA,  daughter  of  mild  Cou- 
radiu, 

The  heiress  of  the  inerrv  Biirguudr, — 
The  noblest  of  the  daughters  of  proud  France, 
The  fairest  of  the  daughters  of  the  earth, 
The  purest  of  the  children  of  the  Lord, — 
And  Robert,  king,  and  suzerain  of  all 
The  rich,  broad  acres  of  the  fruitful  France,  — 
King   Robert,  whose  right  noble  blood  made 
king, 

Saint   Robert,  whose  right  noble  heart  made 
saint, 

Thus  crowned  twice  king  before  his  God  and 
man,  - — 

Sweet  Bertha  and  King  Robert  slowly  rode 
Unto  the  royal  chapel,  to  be  wed. 
A  lovely,  sunny  summer-day  it  was ; 
The   azure   sky  was   flecked  with  snow-white 
clouds, 


64 


BERTHA. 


The  em'rald  carpet  of  the  meadows  fair 
Was  sprinkled  o'er  with  dandelions  bright, 
Like  coins  of  gold  upon  a  velvet  rohe. 
Beside  each  winding  stream  that  purled  along, 
The  violets  low  drooped,  all  wet  with  dew. 
Like  sparkling  amethysts  set  round  with  pearls. 
The  trees  bent  o'er  the  monarch  and  his  bride, 
And  shed  their  gifts  of  jewels,  —  drops  of  dew. 
That  in  the  leaves  and  on  the  grass  were  em'- 
ralds ; 

And  in  the  blue  forget-me-nots  were  sapphires; 
And  in  the  lily,  pearls  and  opals  pure; 
And  in  the  crimson  rose-bud,  rubies  bright; 
And  in  the  constant  sun-flower,  beads  of  gold; 
And  each  one,  in  the  air,  a  diamond. 
And  evermore,  as  forward  the  gay  train 
Wound  through  the  curving  pathways  of  the 
wood. 

Above  their  heads  the  tender  leaflets  played, 
And  made  them  ride  in  sun  and  shadow  on. 
And  then,  again,  in  shadow  and  in  sun. 
So  that  the  lovely  Bertha  now  seemed  crowned 
With  brightest  circlet  of  the  sun's  own  rays; 
And  now,  again,  she  seemed  all  dark  and  sad. 
Yet  dark  and  sad  she  was  not,  for  her  heart 
Was  full  of  gladness  and  of  joy  and  love. 
And  beat  in  answer  to  that  royal  one 
That  throbbed  beside  her,  each  heart-throb  for 
her. 


BERTHA. 


65 


Oh,  fair  she  was,  as  thus  she  rode  alono- 
Upon  her  snowy  palfrey,  by  the  steed 
Of  deepest  black,  of  him  her  mouarch-love. 
Her  long  fair  hair  fell  o'er  her  shoulders  pure 
lu  golden  waves,  e'en  as  the  yellow  grain, 
TThen  whispered  to,  and  wooed  by  suiLimer  airs, 
Doth  thrill  and  tremble  over  all  the  field, 
And  bend  and  droop  in  luxury  of  joy. 
Her  blue  eyes,  darkly  shadowed  o'er  and  fringed 
By  lashes  long,  were  soft  and  brightly  gay, 
And  all  her   smiles  seemed  centred  in  their 
depths. 

But  when  she  looked  upon  her  noble  lord 
They  melted  into  tenderness  and  love, 
And  all  their  brightness  sparkled  fairer  still 
Behind  a  misty  veil  of  happy  tears, 
Like  dew  upon  the  sunlit  violet. 
And  fit  for  royal  bride  her  garments  were : 
A  spotless  mantle  of  white  samite  fell 
In  folds  adown  from  the  still  whiter  neck, 
That  seemed  enfettered  by  a  chain  of  pearls. 
And  all  her  robe  was  broidered  o'er  with  pearls; 
And  on  her  head,  from  out  the  tresses  fair. 
They  here  and  there  peered  forth  half  modestly, 
As  though  they  dared  not  and  they  could  not 
shine 

Beside  that  wealth  of  waving,  molten  gold. 
And  noble  and  right  royal  seemed  the  king, 
With  darkest  chestnut  locks  and  flashing  eje, 
5 


66  BERTHA. 

And  with  his  stately  form,  all  robed  around 
In  richest  purple,  broidered  o'er  with  gold; 
And  with  the  circle  winding  round  his  head. 
That  crowned  him  king  of  all  the  people's 
lands ; 

And  with  the  halo,  seen  by  God  alone, 
That  crowned  him  king  of  all  the  people's 
hearts. 

So  thus  they  rode  on,  through  the  forest's 
•  paths. 

The  monarch  and  his  bride,  and  that  long  train 
That  followed  to  the  music  of  gay  bells 
And  merry  flutes  and  clashing  cymbals  loud. 
That  hushed  the  voices  of  the  startled  birds; 
The  winding  train  of  nobles  and  of  lords. 
The  proudest  and  the  bravest  youths  of  France, 
All  clothed  in  scarlet,  and  in  blue  and  white, 
And  richest  hues,  in  sportive  dalliance  with 
The  queenly  dames  of  good  King  Robert's  court. 
There  rode  the  brave  Gerbert,  but  wedded  late 
To  lovely  •Ermen garde,  beside  him  now. 
There,  too,  the  princely  Otho,  proud  and  cold; 
And  there  his  sister,  gentle  Adela; 
And  gay  Guyenne,  and  Poictou,  and  Provence; 
And  all  the  far-famed  knights  of  noble  blood, 
Each  with  his  bride  or  sister  by  his  side. 
And  so  they  rode  with  pomp  and  rich  display 
On  through  the  quiet  greenwood  to  the  church. 
And  woke  the  echoes  with  their  merry  sounds. 


BERTHA. 


67 


At  length  tliev  reach  the  chapel,  where  they 
pause ; 

And  novr  ther  enter  through  the  sacred  door 
The  holy  temple,  where  the  dazzling  sun 
Striketh  the  stained  -windows  into  flame, 
And  light eth  all  the  crimson  tapestiw, 
And  maketh  all  the  incense,  rising  up 
From  silver  vessels,  like  a  mist  of  gold. 
There  stood  the  Bishops  in  their  robes  of  state. 
And  there  the  great  Ai'chhishop  with  the  cross 
Before  him,  carried  by  a  youthful  page, 
And  bearing  on  his  breast  the  snowy  band, 
The  scapulary  long,  his  order's  sign. 
Then,  as  the  royal  couple  drew  anear. 
He  rose  and  blessed  them,  giving  to  the  bride 
The  circling  crown  that  made  them  King  and 
Queen ; 

"While  Robert  gave  to  her  the  circling  ring 
Of  ruddy  gold,  that  made  them  man  and  wife. 
And  then  the  nobles  fell  upon  their  knee. 
And  swore,  by  all  most  sacred  and  most  dear, 
Life-long  allegiance  of  their  hearts  and  hands 
To  Bertha,  cousin  of  their  ou'ii  good  King  j 
To  Bertha,  heiress  of  nch  Burgundy; 
To  Bertha,  now  anointed  Queen  of  France. 
And  then,  arising  from  the  bended  knee, 
They  shouted  "Xoell"  tiU  the  vaulted  roof 
Reechoed  with  their  cries  of  happiness. 


68 


BERTHA. 


And   now  they  turned  to  leave  the  sacred 
walls,  — 

Fair  Bertha  leaning  on  the  King's  strong  arm, 
With  all  the  stream  of  light  full  on  her  hrow. 
And  with  the  golden  crown  upon  her  head. 
Queen  Bertha,  now,  the  chosen  wife  of  him 
Her  royal  sovereign,  and  her  heart's  dear  lord. 
But  ere  they  reached  the  door  a  dark  gray 
cloud 

Passed  o'er  the  sun,  and  all  the  church  grew 
dim. 

And  when  again  the  sun's  bright  rays  shone 
forth, 

They  pierced  the  painted  window  up  above 
The  great  tall  altar,  with  its  waxen  lights, 
And  hangings,  and  Madonnas,  and  they  threw 
Upon  the  floor  the  altar's  shadow  there, 
Eight  at  Queen  Bertha's  feet,  who,  walking  on 
All  modestly,  her  lovely  eyes  downcast. 
Started  and  paled,  and  trembling  felt  her  heart 
With   one   great   throb   upheave   within  her 
breast^ 

While  from  her  lips  escaped  a  choking  sob, 
Like  the  last  murmur  of  the  swollen  wave, 
When,  after  sudden  storm,  with  one  low  moan, 
It  lessens,  breaks,  and  dies  upon  the  beach. 
And  Robert  questioned  her,  his  trembling  queen. 
And  asked  her  what  she  feared  when  by  his 
side. 


*  BEETHA. 


69 


But  as  he  bent,  his  eves  fell  on  the  groTind, 
And  at  then*  feet,  he  saw  the  shadow  dark 
Of  the  high  altar's  top,  all  draped  around 
In  cloth,  and  wreathed  for  their  wedding-day, 
And  lo !  the  shade  was  as  a  coffin  formed. 
He  started  and  recoiled,  and  all  the  blood 
Forsook  his  cheek  and  trembling  lip ;  but  then, 
Recalling  her  his  Queen,  who  now  did  lean 
On  him  alone  for  comfort  and  support,  — 
As  she  would  lean  through  life,  —  he  boldly 
passed. 

And  murmured,  "Bertha,  oh,  my  queenly  bride, 
'T  is  nought,  and  we  will  cast  such  omens  by, 
Xor  heed  them,  for  our  happy  days  are  near. 
The  coffin  doth  but  bury  all  the  fears 
And  trials  of  our  love;  it  is  a  sign 
That  all  our  sorrow's  dead,  and  a  new  life 
This  day  begins.    And  even  though  it  seem 
The  shadow  of  a  coffin,  what  of  thatP 
We  know  it  is  the  shadow  of  a  shrine.'' 
Thus  tenderly  and  loving  spoke  the  King, 
And  brought  the  color  back  to  Bertha's  cheek ; 
But  he,  too,  trembled  at  the  omen  dread. 
Then  each  one  of  the  train  the  shadow  crossed, 
And  murmurings  and  whispers  passed  around. 
"  Unlucky  augury,"  —  "  our  poor  young  Queen 
Must  step  on  this  upon  her  wedding-day." 
And  all  the  gentle  dames  sweet  pity  felt, 
And  all  the  youths  swore  to  themselves  again, 


70 


BERTHA.  * 


To  stand  by  her,  their  Queen,  now  come  what 
might. 

Right  glad  was  Bertha  when  they  stood  once 
more 

Out  in  the  cool,  fresh  summer-morning's  air. 
And  when,  remounting  all  their  waiting  steeds, 
They  rode  again  unto  the  palace  gates. 

Full  merry,  on  that  lovely  summer-day, 
Was  the  proud  palace  of  the  King  of  France. 
Through  spacious  halls  gay  music  sounded  loud. 
And  flowers,  wreathed  and  braided,  spread  per- 
fume 

In  each  wide  chamber.    Stately  youths  at  once. 
With  graceful  dames,  began  the  waving  dance. 
In  sooth  it  was  a  rich  and  gorgeous  scene. 
The  noble  courtiers,  in  their  costly  robes. 
Their  brilliant  precious  jewels  flashing  forth; 
The  dames  in  robes  of  satin  and  of  silk. 
Of  samite  and  of  velvet,  broidered  o'er 
With  traceries  of  flowers  and  of  leaves. 
In  golden  thread,  or  in  bright  sparkling  gems, 
That  writhed  and  wandered  o'er  the  floating 
robes. 

And  wove  themselves  in  wondrous  forms  and 
shapes. 

And  all  the  walls  were  draped  with  tapestry; 
And  woven  in  were  pictures  of  the  deeds 
Of  Hugh  Capet,  the  father  of  the  King. 


BERTHA. 


71 


And  there,  upon  the  great  high  royal  throne, 
Was  gentle  Bertha,  in  her  queenly  robes, 
With  him,  her  noble  Robert,  by  her  side. 
And  while  they  thus  sat  there  Queen  Bertha 
thought 

Xo  more  of  that  strange  omen  in  the  church ; 
And  Robert  now,  with  her,  forgot  it  too. 
When  looking  in  the  depths  of  those  blue  eyes, 
Or  at  the  golden  waves  of  that  fair  hair. 
For  ten  long  days  the  feasting  lasted  thus 
Beneath  the  palace  roof,  until  the  Queen 
Looked  hopefully  for  ever  happy  days. 
And  saw  the  distant  Future's  heavy  mist 
Become  a  golden  haze,  and  all  its  light 
Streamed  backwards  on  the  joyful  Present,  too, 
Illuming  it  with  tender  radiance. 
For  ten  long  days,  the  land  rejoicing,  seemed 
As  though  the  horn  of  plenty  had  let  fall 
Its  contents  on  the  happy  fields  below. 
And  ruby,  amethyst,  and  amber  wines. 
Were   drained   from  foaming  flagons  to  the 
King 

And  to  his  lovely  Queen ;   and  boards  were 
spread 

With  juicy  meats,  and  blushing  peaches  ripe, 
And  golden-purple  grapes  in  clusters  fair. 
And  all  the  fruits  that  bless  the  fruitful  France, 
All  at  the  generous  bidding  of  the  King. 
At  length  the  feasting  and  the  joys  were  o'er. 


72 


BERTHA. 


And  quiet  reigned  throughout  the  land  again. 
And  Robert  ruled  with  gentleness  and  love, 
And  Bertha  moved  him  unto  deeds  of  peace, 
And  doubly  blest  was  France  now  in  her  King 
And  in  her  Queen,  for  all  was  happiness. 
No  foreign  wars,  no  harvests  poor  and  scant; 
No  wars  intestine,  and  no  armed  revolt; 
No  robberies,  no  murders  fierce  and  wild ; 
But  peace  and  plenty  all  thoughout  the  land, 
And  gentle  laws  obeyed;  until,  at  last. 
The  royal  sceptre  seemed  the  magic  wand 
Of  some  kind  fairy  working  for  the  good 
Of  each  and  all. 

Ay,  those  were  happy  days, 
Those  first,  sweet,  golden  summer-days  of  love, 
When  both  could  pluck  its  full,  fair-blooming 
flower, 

Before  Life's  darksome  blight  had  fallen  there. 
And  Bertha  moved  about  the  palace,  then. 
All  proud  and  joyful;  proud  that  she  should  be 
The  kinswoman  of  one  so  good  and  great; 
The  Queen  of  such  a  happy,  fertile  land; 
The  Queen  of  such  a  great  and  noble  heart. 
And  Robert  was  the  soul  of  all  her  joy ;  — 
Her  love  and  hopes  and  dreams  were  twined 
about 

His  noble  heart,  and  there  would  cling  through 
sun 


BERTHA. 


73 


Or  storm,  e'en  as  the  hy  round  tlie  oak 
Doth  cling  through  summer  heats  and  wintry 
blasts, 

And  parts  not  till  the  oak  itself  doth  fall. 
He  was  the  sun  that  lighted  all  her  life, 
And  any  cloud  of  fear  that  flitted  past 
Upon  her  azure  sky,  he  gilded  tair, 
And  even  could  transform  it  to  a  hope, 
And  all  her  tears  became  as  rainbows  bright, 
Vvdien  ^he  was  smiled  upon  by  him.    And  she, 
For  Robert,  was  the  moon,  that  softens  all 
With  its  pure,  myotic  rays ;  and  in  his  life 
The  rugged,  hard,  and  rocky  pathways  made 
All  soft  and  beautiful  and  silvery 
With  her  sweet  tender  light.    She  led  him  on 
"With  words  of  love.  e"en  as  the  queenly  moon 
Binds  with  her  silver  chains,  so  marvellous, 
Old  foaming  Ocean,  while  she  sheds  her  light 
Upon  his  swelling  and  upheaving  breast, 
And  soothes  him  thus  to  peace  and  quietness. 
For  Robert  did  Queen  Bertha  love  each  scene 
Of  Mature  that  with  him  she  gazed  upon. 
She  loved  the  gentle-drooping  flowers  fair. 
Because   they  spread  for  him  their  perfumes 
sweet ; 

She    loved    the    singing-birds,    because  she 
dreamed 

For  him  alone  they  poured  so  wildly  forth 
The  madness  of  their  tender  melody; 


74 


BERTHA. 


For  him,  slie  loved  the  night-skies  with  their 
gems, 

The  sapphire  Jupiter,  and  ruby  Mars, 
And  opal  Venus,  and  the  diamond  Moon, 
And  all  the  pearly  planets'  softened  gleam. 
And  she  would  say  that  Heaven's  coronet 
Of  stars  was  fair  and  varied,  too,  as  Earth's 
Bright,  girdling  zone  of  flowers.    So  she  loved 
All  these  for  him,  and  him  above  them  all. 
And  then,  from  out  the  ladies  of  her  train. 
Did  Bertha  choose  the  gentlest  for  a  friend. 
The  sweet  Gisele,  a  maiden  pure  and  chaste, 
With  cheek  as  fair  as  is  the  blushing  snow 
Upon  the  mountain-top  when  kissed  by  Dawn, 
And  eyes  as  blue  as  the  forget-me-not. 
E'er  faithful  was  Gisele  unto  the  Queen, 
Though  she  was  wooed  by  brave  young  Adal- 
bert, 

The  noblest  of  the  King's  own  gentlemen. 
She  would  not  wed  him,   so  she  loved  the 
Queen, 

Whose  followers  must  all  be  maidens  pure. 

So,  day  by  day,  she  put  off  Adalbert, 

Who  waited  all  impatiently,  until 

She    promised    him    that    after    two  short 

months,  — 
Upon  the  feast  of  good  Saint  Valery, 
Then  would  she  wed  with  him,  her  chosen  love. 


BERTHA. 


75 


All,  wtiv  are,  evermore,  the  lieavr  folds 
Of  the  dark  Future's  veil  so  dense  that  Man, 
All  blinded,  tries   iu  vain  to  pierce  through 
them. 

But  must  go  groping  on  in  darkness  e'er, 
And  see  the  veil  recede  before  his  steps, 
Still  hiding  all  the  morrow,  till,  at  last, 
Upon  Death's  dawn,  it  risetli  up  for  aye, 
Eevealiug  to  his  dazzled  sight  that  world 
^Aliere  there  are  no  more  morrows,  with  their 
cares. 

But  all  is  one  eternal,  happy  Xow  I 

All  joyfully  and  merry  passed  the  time. 
Until,  one  day,  a  Legate  from  the  Pope  — 
The  stern  Fifth  Gregory  —  arrived  in  France, 
And  none  could  guess  his  mission  to  the  King, 
For  suddenly,  and  with  no  state  he  came; 
And  craving  audience  of  Robert,  then 
He  gave  to  him  the  orders  of  the  Pope, — 
To  meet  with  all  the  clergy  and  the  peers, 
And  high-born  dames,  and  nobles  of  the  realm, 
In  the  great  Hall  of  State,  the  morrow  morn, 
To  listen  there  unto  the  Pope's  commands. 
That  he,  his  Legate,  would  disclose  to  all. 
This  summons  was  proclaimed  abroad  to  each 
In  Robert's  noble  court,  and  he,  the  King, 
And  Bertha,  too,  prepared  themselves  at  once 
The  council  to  attend,  yet  not  without 


76 


BERTHA. 


Some  fear  and  trembling  in  his  pious  heart, 
The  King  thought  o'er  the  summons  all  the 
day, 

Repeating,  "  I  have  done  naught  to  offend 
The  Holy  Father  of  the  Church,  and  should 
He  wish  now  to  enrich  the  Holy  See, 
A  castle  or  a  province  e'en  of  mine, 
In  due  obedience  I  shall  comply." 
And  then  he  searched  the  records  of  his  deeds, 
And  all  of  them  in  memory  reviewed, 
And  read  again  the  tablet  of  each  day ; 
And  though   he  naught  could  find  of  sinful 
there. 

Yet  did  this  strange  and  sudden  order  now. 
Disturb  him  all  that  anxious  day  and  night. 
And  Bertha  trembled  at  this  message  strange 
From  Gregory,  the  all-puissant  Pope, 
And  dreaded  that  some  great  mishap  would 
chance. 

So  all  day  long  she  pondered  it,  but  spoke 
No  word  unto  King  Robert  of  her  fears. 
And  in  the  gloomy  darkness  of  the  night 
Strange  troublous   dreams  did  flit  about  her 
couch, 

And  wake  her  often  with  a  sudden  start ; 
Till  late,  near  dawn,  she  fell  asleep  once  more 
In  an  unquiet  slumber,  and  she  dreamed 
That  she  and  Robert  stood  again,  as  on 
Their  marriage-day,  within  the  royal  church, 


BERTHA. 


77 


As  though  they  were  to  wed.    But  in  the  place 
Of  bishops,  and  of  knights,  and   peers,  and 
dames, 

Were  strange-robed  creatures  seated  all  around, 
Of  which  she  nauo-ht  could  see  save  mantles 
black 

About  their  shapes.     The  crown  was  on  her 
head, 

And  in  her  hand  the  ring  King  Robert  gave; 
But  stern,  cold  Leon,  the  Pope's  Legate,  stood 
In  the  Archbishop's  place,  and  tried  to  tear 
The  ring  and  crown  away;  and  suddenly 
The  mantles  fell  from  off  the  creatures'  forms. 
Revealing  each  a  skeleton,  while  she 
Stood  there  alone  with  them  upon  that  ground, 
That  seemed  all  covered  o'er  with  coffins  now. 
Then  looking  down  the  church-aisle,  which  ap- 
peared 

So  long  she  scarce  could  follow  it,  she  saw. 
Far,  far  away,  the  King,  who  fled  from  her. 
And  then  she  cried  aloud,  and,  waking,  found 
The  golden  light  of  day  full  on  her  face, 
And  Robert  bending  over  her  with  love. 
"  My  Queen,  awake  !  "  cried  he ;     thou  hast 

been  vexed 
With  dreary  visions,  such  as  haunted  me. 
For,  in  the  night,  I  thought  I  saw  the  Pope, 
Who  tried  to  part  us.     Thrice  I  dreamt  that 

dream, 


78 


BERTHA. 


And  then  I  woke,  and  would  not  sleep  again. 
But  come,  arise.    To-day  we  must  go  forth 
Into  the  Cliamher,  there  to  hearken  to 
The  Pope's  commands.   What  care  I  should  he 
take 

My  castles  or  my  provinces  away? 
Thou  art  the  brightest  and  most  precious  gem 
I  own,  my  Queen,  and  thee  he  cannot  take, 
My  noble  and  my  lawful-wedded  wife." 
Queen  Bertha  trembled,  but  she  did  not  tell 
Her  dream,  and  soothed  the  King  with  loving 
words ; 

And  he  calmed  her  with  tenderness,  until 
They  parted  to  prepare  them  for  the  day. 

All  now  was  ready  in  the  Hall  of  State. 
The  King  and  Queen,  in  royal  purple,  sat 
Upon  the  throne  within  the  Hall.    The  King 
Seemed  cold,  but  gentle  as  he  ever  was. 
And  (^alm  and  full  of  dignity  he  sat. 
But  Bertha  looked  all  weak  and  drooping  yet. 
As  though  she  suffered  from  her  weary  night. 
Her  blue  eyes  shone  more  darkly,  and  her 
cheek 

Had  even  lost  the  delicate,  pale  rose, 
That  there  was  wont  to  blush.    The  mantle 
long. 

Of  gorgeous  purple,  with  its  heavy  folds. 

And  with  its  ermine  edge,  but  made  more  fair 


BERTHA. 


79 


The  spotless  whiteness  of  her  swanlike  neck, 
Where  from  her  snowy  shoulders  low  it  drooped. 
Disclosing  the  pure  rohe  of  white  beneath, 
With  all  its  winding*  traceries  of  pearls. 
Around  the  Hall  were  grouped  King  Robert's 
court. 

And  all  the  Bishops  with  their  sable  robes. 
And  at  the  end  of  that  long  Chamber,  there, 
Upon  his  seat  upraised,  the  Legate  sat. 
Robed  in  his  long  and  flowing  purple  stole. 
While  on  his  bosom  shone  the  silver  cross. 
The  token  of  his  rank  and  mission  there; 
And  in  his  hand  he  held  the  long  white  scroll, 
Wherefrom  to  read  the  orders  of  the  Pope. 
Then  all  was  hushed  in  the  assembly  vast, 
And  Robert  waved  his  royal  sceptre  twice. 
As  sign  to  Leon  that  he  should  begin; 
And  Leon  read  the  Bull  of  Gregory, 
And  each  word,  calm  and  clear,  fell  on  the  air. 
In  the  forced  silence  of  a  multitude, 
With  solemn,  dread  significance  to  all. 
And  sank  within  the  hearts  of  those  who  heard. 
Like  a  sharp  stone  that  rufiles  all  a  pool, 
And  sinks  forever  low  within  its  bed. 

"I,  Gregory  the  Fifth,  the  Pope  of  Rome, 
Invested,  by  a  Providence  divine. 
With  this  most  holy  and  most  sacred  charge. 
Proclaim  through  Leon,  Legate  unto  France, 


80 


BERTHA. 


My  orders,  in  the  interests  of  the  Church, 

The  blessed  mother  of  mankind  on  earth. 

Unholy  is  it  for  all  those  to  wed 

Who  are  already  in  the  blood  allied, 

And  those  who  at  the  font  of  baptism  have 

E'er  stood  as  sponsors  for  the  self-same  child ; 

And,  as  King  Robert,  sovereign  of  all  France, 

Is  thus  allied  with  Bertha,  now  his  Queen, 

I  here  proclaim  the  marriage  of  these  two 

Unlawful  and  unholy,  and  command 

Them  now  to  separate  before  all  men, 

As  they  are  separate  in  the  sight  of  God." 

He  ceased,  and  o'er  the  whole  assembly  ran 
A  shudder,  e'en  as  when  the  wintry  wind 
Doth  touch  one  little  swelling  ocean-wave, 
Wliich  flows  and  passes  it  along  the  breast 
Of  the  whole  sea,  and  all  is  wild  unrest. 
Queen  Bertha,  though  the  mantling  blood  first 
rushed 

In  dark'ning  current  to  her  cheeks,  then  fled 
Back  to  her  heart,  and  left  her  paler  still. 
Yet  looked  she  stately,  proud,  and  resolute. 
Nor  spoke,  but  moved  more  near  unto  the  King. 
And  when  he  saw  that  form  beside  his  own. 
And  that  warm,  golden  hair  so  near  his  cheek, 
And  that  small  lily  hand  upon  his  robe. 
He  felt  her  weakness  give  him  strength  anew, 
And  list'ning  to  the  dictates  of  his  heart, 


« 


BERTHA.  81 

He  answered  tliiis  the  Pope's  ambassador:  — 
"To  Gregory  the  Fifth,  the  Pope  of  Rome, 
Bear  thou  this  answer  back,  from  me,  the  King, 
The  second  Robert,  suzerain  of  France. 
Upon  me  hath  no  earthly  power  bestowed 
The  treasure  that  he  asks  me.    God  alone 
Gave  me  my  Queen;  from  Him  I  hold  her  now. 
In  His  name  will  I  keep  her  evermore, 
In  His  name  mil  I  guard  her  from  all  ill, 
In  His  name  is  she  mine,  and  mine  alone, 
And  I  will  yield  her  only  unto  Death, 
The  messenger  divine  from  Him  to  me, 
Allien  she  will  go  where  I  can  follow  her." 
Thus  spake  the  King,  and  Leon  stood  aghast. 
That  he,  the  Monarch-Saint,  should  dare  the 
Pope, 

And  thus  defy  his  solemn,  stern  commands. 
But  not  a  word  he  uttered.    Then  arose 
Queen  Bertha,  who  addressed  him  from  the 

throne :  — 
"  Go,  tell  thy  Holy  Master  Gregory, 
That  in  submission  I  acknowledge  him 
Our  sacred  Father,  wedded  to  the  Church ; 
But  with  his  mighty  power  bid  him,  first, 
Unbind  the  surging  Ocean's  silver  chains. 
That  coil  around  him  from  the  moon  on  high. 
Or  bid  him  part  the  rainbow  from  the  air. 
Or  from  the  mighty  thunder-cloud  in  heaven 
Tear  the  gold  bolt  that  dwells  within  its  folds, 
6 


82 


BERTHA. 


Ere  he  essays  to  part  two  tender  hearts, 
When  once  they  're  bound  with  subtle  chains 
of  love, 

Wlien  once  they  're  joined  by  Joy's  bright  rain- 
bow arch, 

Wlien  once  the  golden  shaft  of  Love  lies  deep 
In  the  dark  chambers,  making  all  their  light. 
0  nobles,  and  ye  gentle  knights  of  France, 
Ye  who  have  sworn  to  aid  us  with  the  strength 
Of  your  strong  hands,  and  your  still  stronger 
hearts, 

Desert  us  not,  in  this  our  darkest  hour. 
But  make  around  your  sovereign  and  his  queen 
A  bulwark  for  their  love,  with  all  your  might. 
And,  Leon,  may  the  sad  tears  of  a  wife 
Now  move  and  touch  your  heart  despite  your- 
self. 

And  bring  sweet  flowers  of  tender  pity  forth. 
As  falling  rain-drops  soften  the  hard  earth. 
Oh,  go  fall  down  low  at  your  master's  feet. 
And  pray  to  him  for  us  as  you  would  pray 
For  your  own  heart's  dear  mistress.    Then,  if 
you 

Have  ever  felt  the  gentle  thrall  of  love 
Binding  your  life,  oh,  bid  him  part  us  not ! 
If  you  have  whispered  in  the  summer  night 
Sweet  loving  words  unto  a  loving  heart. 
Recall  such  words,  and  let  them  prompt  you, 
then, 


BERTHA.  83 

To  soften  him,  and  bid  liim  part  us  not ! 
But  no  !  I  need  not  to  a  mortal  pray, 
For  we  are  joined  forever  by  our  God ; 
Let  no  man  sunder  what  is  joined  by  Him." 
She  stood  upon  the  throne  all  pale  and  proud, 
A  Queen  indeed  before  her  subjects  there; 
But  looking  round  upon  the  multitude, 
A  crimson  blush  suffused  her  pallid  cheek. 
And  low  she  sank  again  beside  the  King, 
A  Woman  all  un queened.    And  then  arose 
The  cry  of  many  voices  in  the  hall, — 
"  Long  live  King  Robert  and  his  noble  Queen  ! 
All  hail  to  royal  Bertha,  Queen  of  France!" 
The  cry  arose,  and  swelled  anon,  until 
A  mighty  shout,  but  died  away  again 
As  sudden  as  it  rose,  and  all  was  still 
As  the  wild  blasts  of  moaning  winds  die  out, 
And  all  is  silent  in  the  wintry  air. 
Then,  when  the  hush  had  fallen  on  the  Hall, 
Again  the  Legate,  Leon,  calm  and  cold, 
Drew  forth  a  scroll,  and,  rising,  spoke  once 
more. 

And  slow  and  solemn  were  the  chilling  words : 

"  I,  Gregory  the  Fifth,  the  Pope  of  Rome, 
Invested  by  a  Providence  divine 
With  this  most  holy  and  most  sacred  charge. 
Proclaim,  through  Leon,  Legate  unto  France, 
My  orders,  in  the  interest  of  the  Church, 


84  BEETHA. 

The  blessed  Mother  of  mankind  on  earth. 

From  intercourse  with  all  good  Christian  souls. 

Who  worship  faithfully  their  God  above, 

And  here  on  earth  the  holy  Church  of  Rome, 

I  excommunicate  the  King  of  France, 

This  Robert  and  his  most  unlawful  Queen; 

And  blessed  are  all  those  who  disobey 

His  orders  from  this  day,  for  I  absolve 

His  subjects  from  allegiance  unto  him. 

And  under  interdict  his  kingdom  lies, 

A  forfeit  to  the  holy  See  of  Rome. 

No  bells  shall  sound,  no  burial  take  place, 

No  rites  now  of  religion  be  performed, 

But  mourning  will  be  over  all  the  land. 

And  it  shall  lie  beneath  the  curse  of  God." 

Then  all  was  hushed  again  at  these  dread 
words. 

And  then  the  King:  "We  will  not  part  in  life, 
And  after  death  a  Mightier  will  judge." 
Then  Bertha,  too,  essayed  to  answer  him; — ^ 
But  suddenly  her  falt'ring  voice  did  break. 
And  die  away  in  one  long  anguished  sob, 
Though  not  a  tear  fell  from  the  proud  blue 
eyes. 

Then  Leon,  once  again  :  I'  All  in  this  hall 
Wlio  honor  and  obey  the  Holy  Pope, 
Will  leave  at  once,  before  their  souls  be  lost. 
The  presence  of  these  two  who  brave  him 
thus." 


BERTHA.  85 

Tlieu,  at  tlie  words,  the  bisliops  first  arose, 
And   theu   the    dames,   aud   then   the  noble 
knights, 

Who  woukl  have  given  up  their  lives  for  her, 
Their  royal  Queen,  but  dared  not  give  their 
souls. 

Then  Leon  followed  them  with  solemn  pace, 
And  left  King  Kobert  and  his  Queen  alone. 
All  mournfully  did  Bertha  watcdi  each  form 
That  passed  from  out  the  hall,  as  though  she 
hoped 

That  some  at  least  would  stay  beside  the  throne; 
And  thus  she  saw  evanish  from  her  sight 
Her  joy,  her  hope,  her  glory,  and  her  pride. 
And  naught  was  left  with  her  but  grief  and 
love. 

Then  turning  tov»ard  the  King,  all  pale  aud 
sad, 

She  biu'st  forth  in  a  flow  of  bitter  tears, 
That  all  the  morn  had  welled  up  in  her  eyes. 
And  choked  her  throat,  and  that  she  had  till 
then. 

With  queenly  dignity  repressed.    But  now. 
When  looking  round  on  the  deserted  hall, 
She  saw  not  one  leal  follower  remain. 
She  let  them  start  forth  from  her  aching  eyes, 
And,  passionately  weeping,  mourned  aloud. 
"  What  I   are   none  left  to  comfort  their  sad 
King  ? 


86 


BERTHA. 


0  Robert,  Robert,  curse  me  where  I  stand, 
Thou,  who  erewhile,  wast  lord   of  blooming 

France, 

And  who  hast  lost  a  kingdom  now  for  me  ! 
Thou  who  to  me,  thy  happy  bride,  gave  all, — 
A  seat  upon  thy  throne,  thy  palace  proud, 
For  my  own  home,  and,  more  than  all,  thy 
heart. 

How  have  I  now  repaid  thee,  0  my  King  ! 

1  've  torn  the  golden  crown  from  off  thy  head. 
Where  it  was  wont  to  rest  so  royally ; 

I 've  seized  the  sceptre  from  thy  kingly  hands. 
That  swayed  it  to  the  noble  impulses 
Of  thy  great  heart !    And  now  thou  standest 
there 

Unkinged,  with  but  the  shadow  of  a  crown; 
Unkinged,  with  but  the   ghost  of  thy  dead 
power. 

And  I  have  done  it  all !    Ay,  more  than  this. 
For  me  thou  forfeitest  thy  place  in  heaven. 
I 've  brought  thee  fitting  dowry  for  a  bride ! 
All  misery  and  sorrow  on  the  earth. 
And  after  death  perdition  !    Curse  me  now ! 
What  words  are  these?    Nay,  nay,  oh,  curse 
me  not, 

For,  Robert,  I  have  loved  thee  all  my  days. 
And  even  now  I  love  thee  more  than  life, 
And  I  will  love  thee,  0  my  King,  till  death. 
My  past  and  present,  ay,  and  future  too. 


BERTHA. 


87 


Are  glorified  and  bright  with  love  of  thee. 
So  curse  and  hate  me  not,  but  pardon  me; 
And  thou  who  know'st  so  well  sweet  Mercy's 
art, 

Forgive  her  now  who  ruined  thee  with  love  ! " 
And  saying  this,  she  knelt  at  Robert's  feet, 
And  all  her  golden  wealth  of  flowing  hair 
Swept  o'er  his  kingly  robe  and  brightened  it, 
Like  sunshine  on  a  bed  of  purple  flowers. 
And  then  the  King  raised  up,  all  tenderly. 
Her  prostrate  form,  and  soothingly  caressed. 
And  spake  unto  her  words  of  love  and  hope. 
"  Weep  not  for  me,"  said  he,  "  my  noble  Queen, 
For  I  am  happy  in  thy  love,  and  hold 
'T  is  more  to  be  the  monarch  of  thy  heart 
Than  sovereign  of  the  lands  of  all  the  world. 
What  matters  it  that  all  my  courtiers  now 
Should  thus  desert  me,  and  should  leave  me 
here  ? 

I  care  not  so  they  leave  me  but  thee. 
And  weep  not,  Bertha,  for  my  soul,  for  heaven, 
Without  thee,  were  a  hell,  and  hell  itself, 
With  thee,  were  heaven,  —  no,  we  ne'er  shall 
part ; 

But  I  shall  bless  thee  for  thy  constant  love, 
And  thank  all  those  who  leave  me  thus  with 
thee. 

To  prove  thy  heart  as  faithful  and  as  true 
As  theirs  are  fickle,  worldly,  false,  and  vain." 


88 


BERTHA. 


Then  Bertha  rose  and  blessed  her  noble  King", 
But,  sighing,  looked  around  the  hall  once  more, 
And  said,  "  Oh,  is  there  not  one  faithful  soul 
Who  loves  us  and  would  ne'er  abandon  us. 
Recalling  all  thy  generous  deeds,  my  King, 
And  all  our  happy  days  of  peace  and  love?" 
"Ay,  there  are  two  such  souls,"  a  voice  then 
cried ; 

And  from  behind  the  waving  tapestry 
There  stepped  a  goodly  knight  and  gentle  maid, 
And  Bertha  knew  Gisele  and  Adalbert. 
"  Pardon  ! "    cried   they,   and   fell    upon  the 
ground 

Before  the  King  and  Queen.    Then  Adalbert: 
"We  offer  at  your  feet  two  constant  hearts. 
That  love  and  reverence,  through  gloom  and 
night, 

As    they   have    loved    through   sunlight  and 

through  joy." 
"Arise,"  cried  Robert;  "'tis  a  happy  night 
That  briugeth  stars  of  such  pure  brightness 

forth." 

And  Bertha  fell  upon  her  fond  Gisele 
And  wept,  and  thanked  her  for  her  noble  love, 
And  called  her  gentle  sister  and  sweet  friend. 
"  Now   am   I   rich  indeed  ! "  then  cried  the 
King, 

The  sovereign   proud  of  two  such  generous 
hearts, 


BERTHA. 


89 


Who  tliiis  will  serve  me  in  my  darkest  hour, 
And  blest  and  glorified  with  snch  a  love 
As  queenly  Bertha,  my  true  wife  bestows." 
Then  Bertha  rose,  and  walking  with  Gisele, 
And  followed  by  the  King  and  Adalbert, 
She  traversed  all  the  lone  deserted  hall, 
And  went  into  her  vacant  palace  home. 

0  Constancy,  thou  precious  jewel  fair ! 

Thou  art  a  pearl,  born  low  beneath  the  waves, 

That  shrinketh  modestly  from  human  eyes. 

As  doth  the  violet  on  earth.  Unknown 

Thou  bloomest  there  till  chance  revealeth  thee. 

And  when  all  other  gems  corrupt  and  fade, 

Thou  only  changest  to  become  more  bright, 

Transformed  into  the  brilliant  opal  fair, 

That  gleams  more  beautiful  in  each  new  light. 

A  deathlike  silence  reigned  within  the  halls 
Of  Robert,  King  of  France.    No  busy  feet 
Crossed  the  long  corridors'  deserted  floors ; 
Within  the  chambers  was  no  sound  e'er  heard. 
And  none  were  ever  seen  beneath  the  roof. 
Save  Robert  and  Queen  Bertha,  and  those  two 
Who    still   were   faithful  to  their   King  and 
Queen. 

Then  all  the  land  was  hushed  and  deathlike, 
too. 

And   none   approached  the   monarch   and  his 
Queen; 


90 


BERTHA. 


And  if,  perchance,  in  their  full  lonely  walks, 
They  met  some  passenger  helated  there, 
He  quickly  crossed  himself  and  turned  away. 
And  fled,  as  though  there  were  pollution  in 
The  very  sight  of  such  accursed  souls. 
No  bells  tolled  forth  the  requiem  for  the  dead, 
No  bells  pealed  forth  the  merry  marriage  sound. 
And  no  religious  rites  were  e'er  performed. 
Save  christening  of  little  new-born  babes. 
All  innocent  of  Robert's  crime,  and  prayers 
For  dying  ones,  at  death-beds  offered  up ; 
While  every  church  and  every  crucifix 
Were  draped  around  in  deepest  folds  of  black. 
And  Bertha  and  King  Robert  found  no  face 
Of  friendly  man  or  woman  round  them  now, 
But  naught  could  see  save  their  own  shadows 
dark, 

That  now  did  follow,  now  precede  their  steps; 

And  naught  could  hear,  save  that  full  mourn- 
ful sound. 

The  echo  of  their  voices  in  the  halls. 

Then  truly  and  with  all  their  hearts  they 
loved,  — 

A  love  made  chaste  and  pure  afar  from  men, 
A  love  all  sanctified  by  Sorrow's  breath, 
A  love  that  filled  up  all  their  hearts  and  souls, 
And  took  the  place  of  every  earthly  joy. 
And  Robert,  thus,  did  e'en  more  royal  seem. 
For  now  he  wore  an  air  of  dignity, 


BERTHA. 


91 


All  proud  and  natural,  with  no  outward  sign 
Of  sceptre  or  of  golden  coronet, 
But  born  of  native  dignity  of  heart. 
That  proved  him  kingly  in  his  soul.    But  she, 
His  Queen,  grew  day  by  day  more  pale  and 
weak, 

And  on  her  pallid  cheek  the  blood,  at  times, 
Would  flush  and  burn,  then  quickly  fade  away, 
Like  to  the  dying  flashes  of  a  lamp, 
And  leave  her  as  though  each  gleam  were  the 
last. 

And  then,  despite  of  Kobert's  tender  love, 
Despite  of  all  his  anxious  cares  for  her. 
She   drooped  and  paled,  and  grew  each  day 
more  weak ; 

And  in  her  eyes  appeared  a  strange  new  light, 
As  though  the  soul  gleamed  through  before  it 
fled. 

One  day,  while  Robert  gently  spoke  with  her. 
She  sigh'd,  and  suddenly  she  swooned  away, 
All  white  and  deathlike,  in  King  Robert's  arms. 
And  he  bent  over  her,  and  wooed  her,  then. 
With  sweet  caresses  and  with  gentle  love. 
And  chafed  the  little  lily  hand  again, 
And    burned    mth    ardent    kisses   cheek  and 
mouth, 

And  rained  his  tears  upon  the  golden  hair, 

As  though  he  would  impart  his  own  young  life 

Unto  tliat  frail  and  drooping,  soulless  frame. 


92 


BERTHA. 


But  naught  availed,  and  loud  he  cried  for  aid, 
And  then  Gisele  came  in,  with  Adalbert, 
And  to  her  chamber  did  they  bear  the  Queen, 
Who  lay  there  in  a  long  and  quiet  trance, 
Nor  once  raised  up  the  fringed  curtains  white 
Of  those  blue  eyes,  nor  once  essayed  to  ope 
The  two  pale  lips,  so  fast  enlocked  in  sleep ; 
But  all  the  while  she  lay  there,  cold  and  still, 
Forgetful  of  the  Present's  misery, 
Forgetful  of  the  Fast's  glad  happy  hours. 
Forgetful  of  the  Future's  joyous  hopes. 
Now  dead  to  grief  and  joy  alike.    It  seemed 
As  though,  within  the  volume  of  her  life. 
The  hand  that  wrote  the  passions  and  the  woes 
For  each  day,  had  forgotten  all  these  hours, 
And  left  them  blank.    Then,  in  those  days,  the 
King 

Did  wander  sadly  through  his  palace-halls. 
Now  doubly  desolate,  for  sweet  Gisele, 
Through   Adalbert,  had  warned   him  not  to 
come 

Anear  the  Queen  as  in  her  trance  she  lay. 
For  fear  lest  he  might  wake  her  suddenly, 
And  make  her  pass  into  the  deeper  sleep 
Of  death.    So  all  the  time  he  wept  alone ; 
And  then  he  mourned,  and  then  fell  down  and 
prayed, 

In  agony  of  grief  and  penitence. 

He  saw  the  shadow  of  her  death  arise  * 


BERTHA. 


93 


Aud  darken  all  liis  days,  and  in  the  gloom 
He  felt  the  hand  of  God  upon  his  head, 
That  did  not  bless  him  with  a  soothing*  love, 
Kor  press  his  brow  in  sorrow  for  his  sin, 
But  bore  him  down,  then,  with  the  dire  weight 
Of  chastisement  and  anger.    Then  he  moaned, 
And  with  a  bitter,  vain  regret,  too  late 
He  wept  that  he  had  brought  such  blooming 
youth, 

And  such  a  wealth  of  lore,  such  rich  young 
life, 

And   such  bright,  dazzling  beauty,  ere  their 
time. 

Unto  the  dark  and  gloomy  night  of  death. 
It  was  as  if  a  softly  flowing  stream, 
That  purled  along  its  course  of  happiness, 
And  wound  its  way  through  groyes  and  flow'rj 
meads. 

Toward  that  great  Ocean  where  all  streams  are 
lost, 

Should  suddenly,  in  happy,  peaceful  flow, 
Be  stopped  foreyer  by  a  frowning  rock ; 
And,  further  on,  the  field  should  neyermore 
By  rippling  stream  be  freshened,  and  no  more 
The  air  be  gladdened  with  its  joyful  song, 
But  oyer  all  the  rock  its  shadow  cast. 
Then  Robert  felt  that  all  his  heayen  had  erst 
Smiled  forth  from  out  the  depths  of  those  blue 
eyes,  . 


94 


BERTHA. 


And  when  their  light  was  clouded  all  was  blank. 
And  only  once  he  caught  a  passing  glimpse, 
Through  the  oped  curtains  of  the  chamber-door. 
Of  the  pale,  sleeping  face  of  her  he  loved, 
With  all  its  golden  frame  of  sunny  hair. 
That  made  it  seem  the  portrait  of  some  saint. 
And  not  the  once-glad  Bertha  lying  thus;  — 
A  saint,  indeed,  all  heavenly  and  cold, 
But  wanting  that  rich  earthly  tint,  that  proved 
Her  all  his  own,  and  not  a  spirit  pure. 
Too  chaste  and  too  serene  for  mortal  love. 
All  motionless  and  cold  she  slumbered  now. 
Like  the  Greek  artist's  statue,  that  he  loved 
For  its  proud  beauty,  ere  the  gods  endued 
Its  form,  in  answer  to  his  prayers,  with  life. 
And  when  the  King  beheld  his  lovely  bride, 
So  pale  and  still  and  deathlike  lying  there, 
Half  maddened  with  its  cold  and  sweet  repose. 
He  rushed  back  to  his  chamber  once  again, 
And  cursed  himself,  and  wept  and  prayed  for 
her. 

Then,  while  Queen  Bertha  all  unconscious  lay, 
She  bore  the  King  a  child,  a  little  Prince ; 
And  when  she  woke  again  she  found  it  there. 
Beside  her  on  her  couch,  and  then  she  asked 
Gisele  what  this  fair  child  did  there,  and  whose 
It  was;  for  she  remembered  naught  of  all 
The  pangs  that  wracked,  erewhile,  her  tortured 
frame. 


BERTHA. 


95 


And  when  Gisele  replied,  "It  is  jour  own," 
Then  suddenly  she  felt  the  mother-love 
Arise  and  swell  within  her  gentle  heart, 
E'en  as  the  precious  water  swelled  and  burst 
From  Meribah,  when  Moses  smote  the  rock; 
And  with  a  tender,  happy  smile,  that  gleamed 
Through  a  glad  flow  of  sudden,  grateful  tears, — 
A  sun -bow  through  the  rain,  —  she  seized  the 
child. 

And  pressed  it  close  unto  her  bosom  fair. 
And  fondled  it,  and  bent  above  its  form, 
And  kissed  it  with  such  passionate  delight. 
That  sweet  Gisele  did  tremble  lest  this  joy 
Should  prove  too  much  for  her  faint,  drooping 
frame, 

And  half  essayed  to  take  from  her  the  child ; 
But  Bertha  pressed  it  closer  to  her  breast. 
Nor  would  entrust  it  unto  other  hands. 
"  Oh,  now,"  cried  she,  "  I  can  repay  my  lord. 
My  noble  King,  for  all  his  love  to  me; 
And  now  these  little  hands  will  smooth  for  him 
The  paths  of  life.    This  rose  will  make  amends 
For  all  the  thorns,  and  this  sweet  angel-face 
Will  brighten  up  once  more  the  dreary  road 
That  I  have  made  so  dark.     Oh,  when  the 
tones, 

All  full  of  music,  of  this  feeble  voice, 
Can  speak  to   France  with   simple,  touching 
words, 


96 


BERTHA. 


They  '11  plead  for  ns,  and  win  the  people's  love. 
And  now,  come  robe  me  in  my  richest  robe, 
For  I  will  go  unto  my  lord  the  King", 
To  bear  myself  this  little  infant  prince 
Unto  his  arms,  and  bid  him  love  my  child 
For  my  sake  and  its  own."     "Nay,"  cried 
Gisele ; 

"You  yet  are  far  too  weak  and  faint  to  rise; 
Myself  will  bear  your  child  unto  the  King." 
And  then  the  Queen  essayed  to  rise,  and  prove 
That  she  was  strong  and  well,  but,  fainting, 
fell 

Upon  her  couch  once  more.    "  I  cannot  go," 
She  sighed,  all  sadly  smiling  through  her  tears; 
"  But  since  I  cannot,  go  thou,  bid  a  priest 
Come  bless  my  child,  and  he  can  bear  for  me, 
Unto  its  royal  father,  my  sweet  babe." 


BERTHA. 


97 


PART  SECOND. 

AxEAE  the  palace  of  the  Kiug  of  Frauce 
Arose  the  monasteiy's  g-loomy  walls. 
That  grimly  frowned  upon  the  passers-hv. 
Without  could  uaught  be  seen  save  windows 
barred, 

And  drawbridge  and  deep  moat,  like  castle 
strong 

Of  some  great  baron;  but  within  the  walls. 
Was  the  fair  chapel  with  its  altar  tall, 
All  covered  with  Madonnas,  strangely  carved 
In  precious  wood  or  cut  in  marl)le  white. 
And  hung  with  costly  jewels  and  bright  gold. 
The  gifts  of  pious  nobles  to  the  Church. 
Unto  the  preacher's  desk  v>'as  firm  attached, 
By  a  short  silver  chain,  the  Book  of  God, 
With  velvet  cover,  broidered  o'er  in  gold, 
And  written  on  rich  vellum  of  all  tints ; 
While  on  the  margin  wide  of  every  page 
Were  pictures  of  the  saints  and  holy  men. 
The  chapel  walls  around  were  tapestried 


98 


BERTHA. 


With  heavy  haiig-ings,  all  embroidered  rich 
With  deeds  of  saints,  of  martyrs,  and  of  Popes, 
And  costly  ornaments  were  strewed  around. 
Here  lay  a  silver  vase  with  incense  filled. 
And  there  a  golden,  holding  precious  drops 
Of  brackish  water  from  the  Holy  Land, 
By  some  good  pious  pilgrim  brought  to  France. 
Beside  the  chapel  was  the  Council  Room, 
Where  met  the  Brothers,  to  decide  upon 
Some  weighty  question  on  occasions  grave. 
Of  flowered  damask  was  the  Abbot's  chair, 
All  framed  in  ebony,  carved  curious. 
And  raised  upon  broad  steps  of  marble  pure. 
Here,  too,  appeared  the  gifts  of  pious  men, 
And  sacred  relics  from  far  distant  shrines ; 
For  at  his  death,  to  expiate  his  sins. 
Each  noble  deemed  he  should  endow  the  Church, 
And  of  all  orders  there  was  none  so  dear 
As  this,  "The  Monks  of  good  Saint  Augustine." 
Helgaut,  the  Abbot,  was  a  frowning  man. 
With  fierce,  cold,  gleaming  eyes,  e'er  glitt'ring 
forth 

From  out  the  shadow  of  his  darksome  cowl. 
Stern,  grasping,  and  severe,  't  was  said  of  him. 
He  had  himself  outlived  his  icy  heart. 
And  all  the  monks  did  tremble  'neath  his  rule. 
Yet  some  of  these  were  jolly-humored  souls, 
Who,  faring  well  from  out  the  vessels  rich 
Of  the  old  monastery,  bore  its  ills 


BERTHA. 


99 


Eight  patiently,  and  all  the  laws  obeyed. 
While  others,  still,  in  all,  their  abbot  grave 
Did  imitate,  and  worship  as  a  saint. 

Snch  was  the  monastery  near  the  King, 
When,  in  the  black  and  stormy  night  in  which 
Qneen  Bertha  to  her  infant  Prince  gave  birth, 
Above  the  thunder's  roar  and  beating  rain 
Was  heard  a  knock  upon  the  outer  gate, 
Prolonged  and  loud ;  and  when  the  doors  were 
oped 

And  drawbridge  raised,  "within  the  gloomy  night 
No  sign  of  man  or  woman  could  be  seen ; 
But,  looking  down,  the  monks  espied  a  child 
Upon  the  threshold  of  the  portal  tall. 
Then  hastily  they  bore  the  infant  in 
Unto  the  light,  and  found  it  all  deformed, 
A  monster  hateful  to  the  eye  of  man. 
That  stared  around  unmeaningly  and  strange. 
The  priests  recoiled  before  the  horrid  sight, 
And,  with  one  voice,  proposed  to  throw  the 
child 

Into  the  moat  around  the  outer  wall. 
But  here  a  tender-hearted  monk  advanced, 
And  said,  "Alas!  the  child's  deserted  now 
By  all  of  human  kind.    'T  is  sadly  cursed. 
And  monstrously  malformed,  but  what  of  that  ? 
0  brethren,  in  the  bitter  hour  of  death 
Our  sinning  souls  may  seem  deformed  and  dark 


100 


BERTHA. 


And  hateful  to  the  eye  of  God,  as  now 
This  child  doth  seem  to  us.    Forget  ye  not 
The  Leper,  touched  by  a  far  greater  hand. 
But  prove  that  this  poor  child,  although  by 
man 

Abandoned,  shall  be  saved  in  God's  own  house. 
Then  let  us  bear  it  to  the  Abbot  good. 
And  pray  that  he  will  keep  it  in  these  walls, 
And  try  to  guard  it  from  all  further  ill." 
Thus  spoke  the  good  old  Brother  Innocent, 
With  such  a  tender  pleading  in  his  tones, 
And  such  kind  pity  for  the  loathsome  thing. 
That  all  the  monks  were  touched  and  bowed 

their  heads. 
So  Innocent  then  raised  the  hateful  babe 
And  bore  it  to  the  Abbot,  stern  Helgaut, 
Who,  when  lie  saw  the  infant  horror  there. 
And  heard  the  good  monk.  Brother  Innocent, 
Thus  beg  him  for  its  life  with  tender  words. 
Cried  forth,  as  though  his  heart  were  softened 

too, 

"Although  I  cannot  bear  to  have  this  child 
Within  these  sacred  walls,  yet  still,  for  thee 
I  '11  shelter  it  this  night,  and  in  the  morn 
We  all  will  meet  within  the  Council  Room, 
And  there  decide  upon  its  future  fate." 
The  good  old  Innocent,  with  grateful  heart. 
Low  to  the  Abbot  bowed,  and  bore  the  child 
Again  within  his  arms  unto  his  cell. 


BERTHA. 


101 


His  own  small  chamber,  and  he  left  it  there. 
And  thoug-h   his   sight  with  loathing  turned 
from  it, 

Yet,  as  a  sacred  duty,  did  he  guard 

The  malformed  infant,  close  an  ear  his  couch, 

And  with  his  prayers  he  blended  prayers  for  it. 

Gay  morn  arose,  all  fair  and  smiling  bright, 
As   though    unconscious   of  the  night's  wild 
storm. 

She  came,  and  breathed  forth  light  and  hope 
anew, 

And  with  her  glowing  touch  the  curtains  black 
Of  the  dark  night  did  part,  and  woA^e  for  them 
A  rich,  bright-orange  fringe.    Then,  while  the 
wheels 

Of  her  gold  chariot  rolled  o'er  the  sky. 
All  changed  to  glory  and  to  light,  and  soon 
A  cloudless  azure  heaven  smiled  on  France. 
Then,  too,  the  little  droplets  of  the  rain 
Had  in  their  heart  a  tiny  golden  sun, — 
Reflection  of  the  mighty  one  on  high, — 
And  so  they  twinkled  like  a  thousand  eyes. 
And  peered  from  every  bush  and  leafy  shrub 
And  tree  and  flower,  smiling  merrily 
To  the  great  eye  of  day,  the  sun  on  high. 

From  early  dawn,  within  the  holy  waJls 
Of  the  old  monastery  all  was  life; 


102 


BERTHA. 


And  after  tlie  long  worship  of  the  morn 
And  early  meal  were  o'er,  the  monks  repaired 
Unto  the  Council  with  the  babe  deformed. 
The  walls  were  now  hung  round  in  deepest 
black. 

That  hid  the  gorgeous  arras  underneath; 
The  crucifix  in  mourning,  too,  was  veiled 
At  every  hour,  to  remind  the  monks 
Of  Robert's  sin,  and  Gregory's  dr-ead  curse 
Upon  fair  France,  their  wicked  King's  estate. 
Then,  when  Helgaut  God's  blessing  had  invoked 
Upon   til'  assembled    monks,   and   prayed  for 
light 

Within  their  souls,  to  see  the  better  path, 
And  do  His  will  upon  the  cursed  child. 
The  horrid  thing  deformed  was  brought  before 
The  Council  of  the  Priests,  ^nd  all  around 
In  silence  waited  for  the  Abbot's  words. 
But  ere  he  spoke  the  hangings  of  the  door 
Were  waved  aside,  and  there  appeared  without 
A  menial,  a  lay-brother,  who  then  craved 
Admission  of  the  Abbot  for  a  maid 
Coming  with   some  grave  message  from  the 
Queen. 

Helgaut,  with  haste,  a  mantle  black  threw  o'er 
The  child  beside  him,  and  then  bade  the  monk 
Bring  forth  the  maiden  to  his  presence  there. 
The  monk  obeyed,  and  entered  with  Gisele, 
Still  pale  from  nights  of  anxious  watching  late, 


BERTHA. 


103 


With   delicate    slight   form,   and   white  arms 
crossed 

Upon  her  bosom,  o'er  her  robe  of  black, 
With  step  all  firm,  but  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
A  pale-pink  blush  suffusing  the  pure  cheek. 
Up  the  long  aisle,  between  the  gazing  priests, 
Gisele  advanced ;  then,  meekly  bowing  low, 
She  stood  before  the  Abbot,  nor  dared  speak 
Until  he  bade  her  tell  her  mission  there; 
And  then,  with  womanly,  low,  thrilling  voice: 

I  come,"  she  said,  "  to  ask  you,  in  the  name 
Of  Bertha,  Queen  of  France,  some  holy  priest 
To  bless  her  little  new-born  infant  prince, 
A  lovely  babe  all  innocent  of  sin." 
"A  lovely  babe,"  the  cruel  Abbot  thought; 
And  then  compared  it  with  the  child  deformed 
That  lay  concealed  beside  his  chair  of  state. 
And,  suddenly,  a  thought  flashed  through  his 
brain,  — 

A  fiendish  thought,  —  and,  then  he  said  aloud, 
"  'T  is  well,  fair  maid  !    Myself  will  follow  you 
Unto  the  Queen,  her  little  prince  to  bless. 
And  try  to  turn  her  from  her  sinful  ways." 
Then  did  he  bid  Gisele  await  without. 
And  called  a  few  most  trusty  priests  to  him, 
And,  whispering  with  them,  he  left  the  hall ; 
Then,  with  Gisele,  he  went  unto  the  Queen. 

Right  glad  was  Bertha  when  she  saw  again 


104 


BERTHA. 


Another  human  face  beneath  her  roof. 
"Welcome!"  she  cried,  "0  reverend  father 
here  ; 

I  pray  thee  bless  this  little  new-born  babe, 
And  bear  it  to  King  Robert  in  thy  arms, 
And  bid  him  bless  it  with  a  father's  love." 
But  to  her  words  the  Abbot  answered  not. 
And  only  murmured  "  Benedicite  " 
Over  the  innocent  doomed  babe,  and  took 
Its  passive  form  within  his  arms;  and  then 
Did  Bertha  bid  farewell  unto  her  child. 
With  one  long*  kiss  upon  its  angel  brow. 
The  seal  of  all  her  new-born  mother-love. 

All  solemnly  Helgaut  withdrew,  and  left 

The  chamber  of  the  Queen,  and  then  the  hall. 

And  then  essayed  he  not  to  find  the  King, 

But  stealthily  he  issued  from  the  door. 

And,  bearing  in  his  arms  the  infant  prince. 

Unseen  he  passed  into  the  open  air. 

And  wound  his  way  unto  the  forest  paths. 

Right  by  the  entrance  of  the  wood  there  flowed 

A  little  streamlet,  narrow,  and  yet  deep. 

And  over  it  the  drooping  grasses  long 

Made  a  green  fringe,  that  hid  it  from  the  eye 

Of  the  indiflPerent  passer-by.    But  those 

Who  lived  anear  well  knew  the  stream,  and  so 

Helgaut  crept  slowly  on  until  he  reached 


BERTHA. 


105 


The  deep  blue  waters  of  the  little  hrook. 
That  looked  as  though  a  sapphire  from  heaveu 
Had  falltui  -mid  the  emerald-  of  earth. 
Aud  there,  all  -uddeuly.  the  priest  >auk  down 
Ou  oue  kuee  iu  the  smooth,  greeu.  velvet  turf 
That  carpeted  the  Ixu'ders  of  the  stream, 
Aud.  lookiug  iu  the  Ijahe's  >oft  azure  eyes. 
He  smiled  a  cruel  suiile  aud  dropped  the  child, 
Like  a  pale  rose-leaf,  ou  the  liowiug  waves. 
But  LTrtcVv  great  gift  of  life  already  had 
Growu  dear,  aud  so  oue  ieeVdc  cry  awoke 
The  sleepiug  echoes,  but  they  died  away. 
Aud  all  was  still.    Aud  theu  the  hahe  aro^e 
Aud  floated  dead  upou  the  river's  Ijreast, 
Like  a  white  lily  oaliuly  ou  a  lake. 
Theu  hastily  the  Abbot  seized  again 
The  little  body  floating  out  of  reach, 
Aud.  Idudiug  rouud  its  t'ovm  a  heavy  stoue, 
He  let  it  drop  ouce  more,  aud  dowu  it  sauk. 
Stirring  the  ripples  for  its  re(|uiem. 
The  happy  l:iird>  sang  ou  their  loving  songs. 
The  azure  sky  smiled  down  upon  the  laud. 
The  green  leaves  of  the  trees,  far  overhead, 
Still  seemed  to  weave  a  delicate,  flue  lace. 
With  mingling  of  their  trembling  branches  fair 
Against  the  Idue  of  heaven,  and  -till  the  stream 
Flowed  on  all  gurgling  low  beneath  the  rocks. 
Aud  soft  between  the  grass-euliued  l:>auks. 
In  ripple,  wave,  and  eddy  flowed  along, 


106 


BERTHA. 


And  told  not  of  that  fragile  burden  small 

That  lay  so  far  below,  or,  if  it  did, 

It  sang  in  such  a  tender,  gentle  tone. 

That  none  could  understand  the  words  it  spoke. 

When  all  was  quiet  once  again  Helgaut 
Arose  and  turned  unto  the  old  retreat. 
The  frowning  monastery.    Then,  when  he 
Had  passed  the  portal,  with  a  mocking  grace, 
A  "blessing  on  the  inmates  and  the  roof," 
He  entered  the  great  Council  Hall  again, 
Wliere  all  the  monks  were  still  awaiting  him. 
And  took  his  seat  upon  the  chair  of  state. 
"Most   worthy,   reverend  brethren,"   said  he 
then, 

"Ye  know  that  by  the  sinful  Queen,  erewhile, 
I  was  besought  to  bless  her  new-born  babe. 
And  that,  in  answer  to  her  call,  I  went. 
I  went,  my  brothers,  and  she  gave  to  me 
Her  child  to  bear  unto  the  wicked  King; 
Then  knowing  our  Father  Gregory, 
The  holy  Pope's  commands,  and  holding  more 
The  welfare  of  the  soul  than  life,  I  bore 
The  babe  from  out  that  atmosphere  of  sin. 
And  then  I  drowned  it  in  the  passing  stream. 
And  prayed  to  God  it  might  not  be  too  late 
To  save  its  soul.    And  now  we  all  can  take 
This  monster  to  the  King,  and  say  it  is 
The  fruit  of  sinning  Bertha;  then  will  he 


BERTHA. 


107 


Believe  this  is  a  judgment  on  his  liead, 
And  part  from  her  at  last ;  and  Gregory, 
The  Father  of  us  all,  will  then,  perchance, 
Eeward  our  little  service,  and  enrich 
Our  Order  with  some  monastery  new. 
Then,  too,  we  each  will  feel  T^^thin  our  souls 
That  we  have  done  what 's  pleasing  unto  God, 
And  cleared  from  all  pollution  our  vile  King. 
What  say  ye,  0  my  brethren,  unto  this  ?  " 
He  ceased,  and  suddenly  the  cry  burst  forth, 
"  God  bless  our  holy  Abbot,  good  Helgaut, 
And  give  him  after  death  rich  recompense 
For  all  his  pious  deeds  ! But  Innocent 
Alone,   of  all   the    monks,    sighed    low,  and 
groaned. 

And  cursed  himself  that  he  had  saved  the 
child, 

TMiile  down  his  cheeks  there  coursed  two  silent 
tears. 

Alas,  poor  little  prince  of  one  short  night, 
Whose  death  has  caused  such  bitter  tears  to 
flow, 

Thy  life  has  been  more  blessed  than  some  more 
long ! 

Then  rose  Helgaut  and  took  the  child  deformed 
Within  his  arms,  and,  with  four  other  priests, 
He  bore  it  to  the  palace  of  the  King, 
And  through  the  halls  unto  his  chamber-door. 


108 


BERTHA. 


And  then  they  entered  all  King  Robert's  room, 
And  found  him  praying,  low  upon  his  knees, 
With  fervor  of  devotion ;  but  he  rose 
With  mingled  looks  of  gladness  and  suprise, 
At  seeing  once  again,  within  his  court, 
New  faces  strange,  and  bid  them  welcome  there, 
And  asked  them  what  their  mission  was  with 
him. 

Then  first  advanced  the  stern  Helgaut,  and  held 
Within  his  arms  the  loathsome  child  deformed. 
And  said,  "  0  King,  we  come  to  clear  you  now 
Of  all  pollution,  for  we  bring  to  you 
A  sign  and  proof  that  you  offend  your  God 
By  living  with  your  most  unlawful  Queen. 
For  while  she  lay  unconscious  in  her  trance 
She  bore  a  babe,  and  this  child  is  her  fruit ! 
Oh,  pause  awhile,  and  think  upon  your  fate ! 
The  awful  Thousandth  Year  doth  now  approach 
When  all  the  world  shall  die,  and  Earth  resolve 
Once  more  into  that  chaos  whence  she  sprang. 
The  Lord  will  now  judge  every  secret  thing, 
And  every  secret  work,  howe'er  concealed. 
If  good  or  evil.    Oh,  beware,  beware ! 
Soon  shall  the  silver  cord,  0  King,  be  loosed. 
The  golden  bowl  be  broken  at  the  fount, 
Man's  flesh  return  to  dust  that  erst  it  was, 
Man's  spirit  to  the  God  who  gave  it  life. 
For  now  the  dreaded  Thousandth  Year  is  nigh. 
And  woe,  0  King,  if  thou  dost  disregard 


BERTHA.  * 


109 


This  proof  of  God's  just  anger  at  tliy  deeds." 
Aud,  saving  tliis,  lie  offered  to  the  King 
The  hateful  infant  ;  hut  the  King  drew  back 
And  groaned,  and  hid  his  face  to  see  it  not. 
"Away  I  "  cried  he;  "oh,  torture  me  not  tlins ! 
I  see,  I  see  niy  own  sin  and  niv  Queen's, 
But  still  I  cannot  think  this  thing  is  hers. 
Oh,  see  ve  not  the  agony  of  mind 
That  I  have  suffered,  and  that  wracks  me  now? 
Oh,  tell  me,  tell  me  that  this  is  not  hers  !  " 
"'Xay,  nay,"  replied  Helgant,  "it  is,  in  sooth, 
The  offspring  of  your  Queen,  and  we  will  swear. 
By  all  most  sacred  in  this  life  or  heaven. 
That  it  is  hers."    "'  Then  swear,"  replied  the 
King, 

"  For  my  crazed  mind  refuseth  to  believe." 
Then  first  Helgant,  the  Abbot,  bowed,  and  made 
The  sign  upon  his  bosom  of  the  cross. 
And  murmured,  "By  the  blessed  blood  of  Christ 
I  swear  this  child  is  Bertha's  and  your  own." 
And  then  another  came  and  swore  by  Heaven ; 
And,  lastly,  did  they  all  appeal  to  God, 
And  swear  't  was  Bertha's  and  King  Robert's 
child. 

Then  Robert  groaned  and  wept  and  tore  his 
hair, 

And  cried  "  Alas  !  God's  anger  smiteth  me. 
And  I  will  part  from  her."    Then  said  Helgant, 
"  Swear  \v  the  Church  !  "    And  then  the  King, 
I  swear."' 


110 


BERTHA. 


And  then  another  cried,  "  Oh,  swear  by  Christ." 
And,  in  a  low  and  broken  voice,  the  King, 
"  I  swear."  And   then  the  others  said,  "  Oh, 
swear 

By  God."    And,  broken  by  an  anguished  sob, 
"I  swear  by  God  in  heaven  to  part  with  her. 
And  never  to  behold  her  face  again  ! " 
Then  did  the  Brothers  go  from  out  the  hall. 
And  leave  King  Robert  with  his  mighty  grief. 
And  when  he  found  himself  alone  once  more 
He  burst  forth  with  a  passionate  despair, — 
"  Oh,  must  I  part  with  thee,  at  last,  my  Queen, 
And  never  see  thy  lovely  face  again. 
And  never  hear  thy  low  and  thrilling  voice, 
Nor  even  bid  thee  now  a  last  farewell? 
Oh,  must  the  tender  light  of  those  blue  eyes 
Forever  vanish  from  my  yearning  sight. 
And  leave  me  dark  and  lo-nely  ?   Must  that  form 
Which  was  to  me  the  precious  casket  fair 
That  held  all  gems  that  made  life  bright  for 
me. 

Forever  disappear,  now,  like  a  dream 
Of  beauty  and  of  joy?    Despite  the  sin. 
Despite  God's  judgment  on  us  both,  my  Queen, 
My  noble  Bertha,  oh,  I  love  thee  still. 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  more  passionate. 
More  deep,  more  rich  than  e'er  I  loved  before; 
It  swells  up  in  my  heart  as  though  'twould 
burst 


BERTHA. 


Ill 


That  feehle  prisoiij  small  to  hold  so  much. 
0  Bertha,  Bertha,  yes,  I  love  thee  still. 
Despite  that  hideous  deformity,  — 
Thy  fruit,  thy  gift  to  me.    And  eyen  thou 
Wilt  deem  my  heart  is  faithless  unto  thee, 
And  thou  wilt  curse  and  hate  me,  0  my  Queen. 
Ay,  sooner  that,  still  sooner  would  I  haye 
My  harshness  turn  the  loye  that  hurns  within 
Thy  nohle  heart  for  me,  to  deepest  hate. 
Than  haye  thee  feel  such  pangs  of  fruitless  loye 
As  I  feel  now."    He  ceased,  and,  rising  slow, 
He  opened  wide  liis  arms,  and  then  he  gave 
A  long,  despairing,  piercing  cry  that  held 
His  soul,  his  passion,  and  his  loye,  and  cried, 
"  Farewell,  farewell  foreyer  !  "    Then  he  fell 
Exhausted,  fainting,  and  unconscious,  low 
Upon  his  face,  as  though  all  life  had  fled. 

Into  the  chamber  of  King  Robert's  queen 
There  entered,  all  alone,  the  Abbot  graye, 
Helgaut,  who,  walking  on  with  solemn  pace, 
Stopped  at  her  bedside,  bending  low  to  her. 
Queen  Bertha  looked  an  instant  at  the  priest. 
Then  cried,     Where  is  my  child?   What  harm 

has  come  ?  " 
"What    child?"  .exclaimed    the    monk  with 

feigned  surprise ; 
"  That  hateful  monster  that  you  gaye  to  me. 
To  show  unto  tlie  King?    Oh,  call  you  that 


112 


BERTHA. 


Your  child  and  do  not  blush?"    "No,  no," 
cried  she,- 

"  My  little  cherub,  my  sweet,  rosy  child, 
That  you  erewhile  did  take  from  out  my  arms. 
Come,  come,  oh,  mock  me  not  with  these  vain 
fears, 

But  give  to  me  once  more  my  lovely  babe." 
Then  solemnly  and  slowly  spoke  the  monk, — 
"I  know  not  of  a  lovely  little  babe; 
I  know  no  more  than  that  you  gave  to  me 
A  child  malformed  and  hateful.    Unto  you, 
I  well  can  fancy,  it  seemed  beautiful. 
But  to  all  others  't  was  a  monster  dread, 
And  e'en  the  King  did  find  it  horrible." 
"Nay,   nay,"   then   cried   the  terror-stricken 
Queen, 

"  It  was  no  monster,  cruel-hearted  monk ; 
And  if  it  were,  I  '11  love  it  still  the  same, 
And  cherish  it,  and  think  it  beautiful. 
If  you  will  but  restore  it  unto  me." 
Then  went  the  monk  from  out  the  chamber- 
door. 

And,  entering  again,  he  brought  with  him 
The  child  deformed,  and  gave  it  to  the  Queen. 
She  looked  at  it  a  moment,  then  recoiled, 
All  wildly  shrieking,  "  Give  me  back  my  babe. 
For  that  is  none  of  mine!   Where  is  my  boy?" 
"Well  knew  I,"  said  the  monk,  "that  none 
could  be 


BERTHA. 


113 


E'er  blinded  unto  such  deformities. 
This  is  the  awful  judgment  of  the  Lord ; 
For  this,   Queen   Bertha,   this   child  is  your 
own." 

And  then  Queen  Bertha  rose  upon  her  couch, 
As  though  she  had  not  heard  his  words,  and 
cried,  — 

"  Where   have   you   left   my  babe,  oh,  cruel 
monk  ? 

If  in  your  hard  and  rocky  heart  there  be 
One  tender  spot,  oh,  give  me  back  my  child ! 
I  see,  I  see,  you  would  but  raise  my  fears. 
And  make  me  doubly  happy  when  you  bring, 
Once  more,  my  little  blooming  child  to  me. 
But  mock  no  more,  for  see,  I  will  go  mad ! 
Oh,  say  no  longer  that  this  thing  is  mine ! 
Then  wdll  I  pardon  you  the  agony 
You  cause  me  now.    Fear  not,  I  '11  pardon  all." 
"Alas!"  replied  Helg'aut,  with  artful  sigh, 
•^'All  gladly  would  I  bring  some  little  child. 
With  merry,  laughing,  pretty  infant  face, 
And  swear  it  was  your  own,  if  Truth  were  not 
Above  all  else  with  me.    But  this  child  is 
The  same  one  that  you  gave  me  as  your  own. 
And,  as  a  proof  that  this  is  so,  the  King 
Saw  only  God's  just  chastisement  and  wrath. 
And  bade  me  tell  you,  you  must  part  from 
him, 

And  leave  at  once  his  palace  and  his  home, 
8 


114 


BERTHA. 


And  nevermore  behold  his  face  again." 
A  moment  since,  all  flushed  and  warm,  she 
stood 

Beside  her  couch,  while  weeping  bitter  tears, 
And  with  both  arms  outstretched,  as  though  in 
prayer ; 

But  now  each  tear  rushed  backward  to  its 
source. 

And  froze  upon  her  brain ;  her  arms  dropped 
down 

Beside  her  form,  the  rosy  color  fled 
From  cheek  and  lip,  and  left  no  sign  of  life. 
Save   the    quick    gasp,    the   choking,  painful 
breath. 

And  one  long  shudder  that  ran  o'er  her  frame. 
Helgaut  had  looked  for  violence  and  tears. 
And  cursings  and  loud  cries,  but  none  such 
came. 

While  one  great  tear  coursed  down  her  pallid 
cheek. 

With  dry,  wide-opened  eyes  she  looked  at  him, 
Nor  spoke  nor  moved.    Then  a  long  sigh  up- 
heaved 

Her  snowy  breast,  and  thus  she  spoke  to  him. 
Not  madly,  but  with  low  and  saddened  tone. 
And  slow  as  though  all  life  and  strength  had 
gone. 

"  Since  Robert,  since  my  noble  lord,  believes 
That  this  thing  is  the  child  I  bore  to  him, 


BERTHA. 


115 


I,  also,  now  believe  that  it  is  mine, 
For  in  all  things  I  ever  think  with  him." 
And  meekly  did  she  how  her  queenly  head, 
And  all  again  was  silent.    Then  the  monk  : 
"What  parting  message  shall  I  give  the  King?" 
Again,  in  low,  soft  tones,  she  answered  him, — 
"  Tell  Robert  that  his  loyal  Queen  obeys 
His  least  commands,  and  leaves  his  home  to- 
day." 

She  spoke  so  low  and  painfully,  Helgaut 
Feared  each  word  was  her  last,  but  still  essayed 
One  question  more.    '-This  eliild,  your  child?" 
said  he. 

Again,  in  soft  and  choking  tones  she  spoke : 
"  Go,  take  it  with  you,  tend  and  try  to  love. 
And  God  will  bless  you ;  but,  oh,  show  it  not 
Unto  my  tearless  eyes  again.    Xow  go, 
Put  all  your  heart  and  passion  and  past  youth 
Into  one  word,  and  say  it  to  the  King, 
And  be  that  word  'Farewell."'   The  monk  with- 
drew. 

And  slowly  went  from  out  the  royal  halls. 
Then,  sinking  down  upon  her  couch  again, 
The  Queen  lay  there  all  calm  and  pale  and  still. 
And  wept  not,  nor  could  pray,  but  only  said, 
"  '  To  leave  at  once  his  palace  and  his  home, 
And  nevermore  behold  his  face  again.' " 
And  o'er  and  o'er  repeated  this,  until 
The  words  had  lost  all  meaning  in  her  ears. 


116  BERTHA. 

Low  ill  the  Western  sky  the  full  round  sun 
Was  piercing  with  his  darts  of  fire  the  clouds 
Of  purple  and  of  gold  around  his  throne, 
And  sinking  all  in  glory  to  his  rest; 
While  in  the  East  there  hung  the  pale-faced 
moon, 

Like  a  round  silver  mirror,  burnished  bright, 
For  the  great  sun,  who  saw  his  image  there 
Reflected  palely  in  its  polished  disk. 
Then  twilight  fell  upon  the  busy  earth, 
And  clothed  with  mystery  each  tree  and  bush ; 
And,  sparkling  in  the  darkness,  twinkled  forth, 
From  out  the  azure  mantle  of  the  skies, 
The  diamond  stars,  erst  hid  within  its  folds. 
All  sounds  died  out  upon  the  plain  and  hill. 
Save  the  low  cricket  chirp,  or  the  soft  burr 
Of  grasshopper  concealed  beneath  the  leaves. 
No  more  was  heard  upon  the  twilight  air. 
While  France  lay  'neath  the  Pope's  dread  in- 
terdict. 

The  pealing  of  the  mellow  vesper-bell, 
But  all  around  was  hushed  in  still  repose. 
Then,  when  the  quiet  of  that  peaceful  hour, 
On  each  and  all  had  fallen,  slowly  forth. 
From  out  the  palace  of  the  King  of  France, 
There  came  a  stately  woman  robed  in  black. 
With  such  a  pallid,  calm,  and  saddened  face. 
With  such  great,  yearning,  tearless  azure  eyes,  . 
With  such  a  fixed  and  vacant  gaze,  she  seemed 


BERTHA. 


117 


The  Angel  of  Despair  upon  this  earth. 
Her  steps  were  slow,  and  often  did  she  pause 
For  strength  and  breath  before  she  could  pursue 
Her  short,  but  wearisome  and  painful  path, 
That  led  unto  the  convent's  gloomy  walls, 
Arising  near  the  palace  of  the  King. 
And  now  she  seemed  so  sad  and  faint  and  ill. 
That  scarcely  could  she  reach  the  gate  alone. 
At  length  she  came  before  the  portal  tall, 
And,  knocking  there,  a  white-robed  nun  ap- 
peared, 

And  asked  her  what  she  would  in  those  old 

walls.  * 
Then  answered  she,  "  I  craye  admission  here 
To  wipe  away  my  sin  with  prayers  and  tears, 
For  I  am  Bertha,  once  the  Queen  of  France." 
And  when  the  gentle-hearted  sisters  heard 
That  she  had  been  their  good  and  noble  Queen, 
And  found  her  thus  in  grief  and  misery, 
They  welcomed  her  within  the  convent  walls, 
And  prayed  for  her,  and  spoke  not  of  her  sin. 
But  promised,  on  the  morrow,  she  could  take 
The  black  veil  of  the  nun,  nor  wait  the  time 
That  should  expire  in  novitiate. 

The  little  chapel  of  the  convent  old 
Was  lighted  up  with  slender  tapers  bright. 
The  incense  rose  from  waving  censers  full. 
The  great  high  altar  was  with  flowers  decked. 


♦ 


118 


BERTHA. 


When  Bertha  entered,  robed  right  regally 
In  fairest  white,  with  all  her  golden  hair 
Upon  her  snowy  shoulders  waving  down, 
And  crowned  now  with  a  wreath  of  lilies  pure, 
That  could  not  pierce  her  brain  and  wound  her 
heart. 

As  the  rich  crown  of  gold  she  erst  had  worn. 
No  color  lighted  up  the  marble  cheek, 
No  tears  had  yet  relieved  the  aching  eyes. 
But  beautiful,  surpassing  earthly  grace. 
She  looked,  as  slowly  up  the  chapel-aisle. 
And  followed  by  the  white-robed  chanting  nuns, 
She  walked  unto  the  altar.    There  she  fell 
Before  it  prostrate  on  her  face,  and  then 
The  sisters  o'er  her  flung  the  great  black  veil 
That  covered  all  her  form;  and  half  the  nuns. 
In  low  and  tender  voices,  chanted  slow. 
With  musical  soft  tones,  "  Our  sister 's  dead." 
And  all  the  rest,  in  rich  and  thrilling  voice, 
That  seemed  to  pierce  the  high  and  vaulted 
roof. 

Then  chanted  loud,  ''Alive  in  Jesus  Christ!" 
And  after  this  they  went  to  raise  the  veil, 
And  lo !  the  chants  were  true,  for  she  was  dead. 


TRANSLATION^  S. 


TEAXSLATIOXS  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


SOXGS  FROM  HEIXRICH  HEIXE. 
I. 

HOU  fairest  Fislier  Maiden^ 
Row  thy  boat  to  the  laud; 
Come  here,  we  '11  sit  together, 
TMiisperiug  hand  iu  hand. 

Lay  on  my  heart  thy  head,  love, 
And,  dearest,  fear  not  me ; 

Thonghtless  thon  trustest  daily 
The  wild  and  restless  sea. 

My  heart  is  like  the  sea,  dear, 
With  storm,  and  ehh,  and  flow, 

And  many  a  lovely  pearl  lies 
Hid  in  the  depths  below. 


SONGS  FROM  HEINRICH  HEINE. 


II. 

The  Lotus-flower  trembles 
Before  tlie  sun's  gold  light, 

And,  with  her  head  low  drooping, 
Waits,  dreamily,  the  night. 

The  Moon,  he  is  her  lover. 
He  wakes  her  with  his  light. 

And  unto  him  reveals  she 
Her  flower-face  so  bright. 

She  blooms  and  glows  and  brightens, 

And  dumbly  looks  above  ; 
She  weeps  and  sighs  and  trembles 

With  love  and  the  woes  of  love. 


III. 

A  LITTLE  star  fell  down  once 
From  its  silver  throne  above ; 

I  saw  it  falling  downwards,  — 
It  was  the  star  of  Love. 

And  many  leaves  and  flowers 
Fell  down  from  the  apple-tree; 

There  came  the  fresh  young  breezes 
And  toyed  with  them  playfully. 


SOXGS  FROM  HEIXRICH  HEIXE. 


123 


There  sang  a  swau  on  the  lakelet, 
Rowing  calm  upon  the  wave, 

And,  ever  softly  singing, 
Dived  in  his  watery  grave. 

Flower  and  leaf  are  vanished, 
And  darkness  shrouds  the  hill ; 

The  star  has,  crackling,  fallen, 
And  the  song  of  the  swan  is  still. 

IT. 

LoTELT,  clear,  and  golden  star. 
Greet  my  loved  one  from  afar; 

Tell  her  what  I  tell  to  you,  — 

That  I  ^m  heart-sick,  pale,  and  true. 

T. 

Friendship,  Love,  the  Stone  of  Wisdom, 
Heard  I  praised  in  every  spot; 

And  I  praised  them,  too,  and  sought  them. 
But,  alas  !  I  found  them  not. 

YI. 

Sapphiees  are  thy  little  eyes, 
So  lovely  and  so  sweet ; 


124  SONGS  FROM  HEINRICH  HEINE. 


Oh,  three  times  happy  is  the  man 
Whom  they  with  love  will  greet. 

Thy  heart  it  is  a  diamond 
That  overflows  with  light; 

Oh,  three  times  happy  is  the  man 
For  whom  it  glows  so  bright. 

Red  rubies  are  thy  lovely  lips, — 

No  fairer  can  man  press; 
Oh,  three  times  happy  is  the  man 

For  whom  they  love  confess. 

I  only  know  that  happy  man, 

I  saw  him  roaming  last, 
Alone  and  sad,  the  forest  green ; 

His  happiness  soon  past. 

VIT. 

*^Sat,  w^here  is  thy  little  loved  one, 
That  thou  sang  of,  erst,  so  well. 
As  a  flame  that  through  thy  heart,  once, 
Pierced  with  wondrous,  magic  spell  ?  " 

Every  flame  must  be  extinguished. 
And  my  heart  is  cold  above; 

And  this  little  book  the  urn  is 
For  the  ashes  of  my  love. 


SONGS  FROM  HEINRICH  HEINE. 


125 


VIII. 

You  liave  merrv  friends  this  evening, 

The  house  is  full  of  light; 
There  moves  a  darksome  shadow 

Across  the  windows  bright. 

In  the  dark  thou  canst  not  see  me, 

I  stay  here  all  alone; 
Still  less  canst  thou  peer  into 

My  heart,  so  sad  and  lone. 

My  sad,  lone  heart,  it  loves  thee, 
And  brightens,  loving  thee; 

It  glows  and  pants  and  blossoms, 
Only  thou  wilt  not  see. 

IX. 

How  fragrant  breathes  the  red  carnation ! 

How  the  stars,  a  swarm  on  high 
Of  golden  bees,  all  brightly  glimmer 

In  the  violet-blue  sky. 

Through  the  chestnut  trees'  dark  shadows 
Shines  the  cottage  white  and  fair ; 

And  I  hear  the  glass-door  clicking, 
And  thy  voice  floats  on  the  aij.*. 


SONGS  FROM  HEINRICH  HEINE. 


Friendly  4remblings,  loving  tremblings, 
Fearful,  fond  embraces  bring; 

And  the  little  roses  listen, 

And  the  nightingales  they  sing. 

X. 

Fleeting  kisses,  shadow-life, 
Love  in  darkened  shadow  too; 

Think'st  thou  all  remains,  Coquette, 
Unchanged  e'er,  and  ever  true  ? 

What  we  lovingly  possessed 

Disappeared,  like  dream  so  deep, 

And  the  hearts  they  have  forgotten. 
And  the  eyes  have  gone  to  sleep. 

XI. 

The  dreaming  water-lily 

From  the  lake  looks  up  above. 

The  moon  looks  down  upon  her 
All  full  of  the  woes  of  love. 

Ashamed,  she  droops  her  head,  then 
Again  in  the  waves  so  blue. 

And  lo  !  at  her  feet  she  sees  there 
The  lover  so  pale  and  true. 


SONGS  FROM  HEINRICH  HEINE.  127 


XII. 

Upon  my  loved  one's  little  eyes 

I  wrote  my  sweetest  song; 
Upon  my  loved  one's  little  cheeks 

I  wrote  fair  verses  long. 
As  for  my  loved  one's  little  mouth, 

I  wrote  a  stanza  on  it ; 
And,  if  my  loved  one  had  a  heart, 

I 'd  write  for  it  a  sonnet. 


XIII. 

The  rose  and  the  lily,  the  sun  and  the  dove, 
I  loved  all  these  once,  with  an  equal  love. 
I  loved  not  one  more,  but  I  loved  alone 
The  little,  the  fine  one,  the  pure  one,  the  one. 
And,   now,   you  yourself  are   worth    all  this 
love, — 

You're  the  rose  and  the  lily,  the  sun  and  the 
dove. 

XIV. 

That  thou  lovest  me  well  knew  I, 

I  saw  it  long  ago; 
And  yet,  when  you  confessed  it. 

It  frightened  me  to  know. 


SONGS  FROM  HEINRICH  HEINE. 


I  stood  upon  the  mountain 
And  sang  so  merrily; 

All  in  the  lovely  sunset 
I  wept  upon  the  sea. 

My  heart  is  like  the  sun,  dear, 
So  flaming"  and  so  light. 

And  in  a  sea  of  love,  deep. 
It  sinketh  great  and  bright. 


XV. 

I  BELIEVE  not  in  the  Heaven 
Of  which  the  Prophets  write, 

But  only  in  thy  little  eyes; 
They  are  my  Heaven-light. 

I  believe  not  in  the  Lord  God, 
Of  whom  so  much  they  cry; 

But  only  in  thy  heart,  love,  — 
No  other  God  have  I. 


I  believe  not  in  the  wicked 
In  Hell,  and  all  Hell's  smart 

But  only  in  thy  little  eyes. 
And  in  thy  wicked  heart. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  FRENCH. 


SONG  FROM  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 

WAS  the  hour  of  eve,  the  mysterious 
hour, 

Wheu,  suspending  its  wing. 
The  nightingale,  seated  on  some  lonely  flower, 
Commences  to  sing. 

'T  was  the  hour  of  eye,  ^t  was  the  hour  so 
graye, 

'T  was  the  noiseless  twilight, 
When  the  drooping  rose  sends  o'er  the  mur- 
muring waye 
Incense  rich  to  the  night. 

The  air  ceased  to  sigh,  and  the  water  to  flow. 
Whilst  everything  heard  — 

E'en  the  silvery  star  with  its  quivering  glow  — 
The  song  of  the  bird. 


130 


SONG  FROM  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 


He  said  to  the  rose,  "Wliy,  oli,  blossom  so  fair. 

Dost  thou  bloom  but  at  night?" 
And  she  said,  "Why  dost  offer  thy  song  to  the 
air 

But  in  the  starlight?" 

And  he  answered,  "  My  song  is  but  for  the 
flower 

That  blooms  in  the  night." 
She,  "My  scent  for  the  bird  that  sings  at  the 
hour 

Of  lovely  twilight." 

In  a  mystery  sweet,  then,  those  words  full  of 
love. 

Did  blend  that  calm  hour; 
And    the  morn  found  the  bird  —  no  longer 
above  — 
By  the  deep-blushing  flower. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF 
VICTOR  HUGO. 


REASSURING  SIGHT. 

All  is  gladness,  all  is  light, 

The  spider,  at  a  busy  pace, 
To  the  silken  tulips  bright 

Fastens  his  round  silver  lace. 

Now  the  dragon-fly  admires 

The  bright  globes  of  his  sparkling  eye 
In  the  splendid  pond,  where  swarms 

A  whole  world  full  of  mystery. 

The  rose,  grown  young  again,  now  seems 
To  join  with  the  pink  bud  so  bright; 

The  bird  sings,  full  of  harmony. 
In  the  green  branches  full  of  light. 

He  praises  thus  the  soul's  great  God, 
Who,  ever  seen  by  all  hearts  true, 

Makes  dawn  a  pupil  bright  of  flame, 
For  the  fair  sky  an  eye  of  blue. 


REASSURING  SIGHT. 


In  tlie  dark  woods,  where  all  is  hushed, 
The  timid  peacock  plays  and  dreams : 

And  in  fair  caskets  green  of  moss, 
Like  living  gold,  the  May-bug  gleams. 

The  moon  by  day  is  warm  and  pale, 
Like  convalescent,  full  of  mirth; 

Uncloseth  she  her  opal  eyes. 

Whence  heaven's  sweetness  comes  to  earth. 

The  gilly-flower,  with  the  bee. 

Caresses,  kissing,  the  old  wall; 
The  furrow  warm  awakens  gay. 

Moved  by  the  germ  beneath  it  all. 

All  lives,  and  rises  now  with  grace 

The  sun  upon  the  cottage  sill. 
The  shadow  on  the  passing  wave. 

The  blue  sky  on  the  em'rald  hill. 

The  plain  shines  happy,  now,  and  pure, 
The  woods  prate,  and  the  grass,  too,  grows. 

Man,  fear  thou  naught,  for  Nature  smiles. 
And  Nature  the  great  secret  knows. 

April  1st,  1865. 


TO  THEE! 


Since  each  soul  here  must  give 

To  some  one  name, 
Its  perfumes  or  its  songs, 

Or  else  its  flame : 

Since  each  heart  that  on  earth 

Does  throb  and  live, 
Its  rose  or  thorn  to  Love 

Must  ever  give  : 

Since  April  gives  the  oak 

A  rustling  noise. 
Since  night  to  grief  gives  sleep,  — 

The  best  of  joys  : 

Since  air  gives  to  the  branch 

The  birdling  blue. 
And  dawn  gives  to  the  flower 

A  little  dew: 

Since,  when  it  comes  at  last 
To  rest  in  bliss. 


134 


TO  THEE! 


The  sad  wave  to  the  shore 
Does  give  a  kiss : 

I  give  thee,  at  this  hour, 

Inclined  o'er  thee, 
The  best  and  truest  thing 

I  have  in  me. 

Receive  then,  love,  my  thoughts, 

E'er  sad  with  fears ; 
That  reach  thee  like  the  dew 

Embalmed  in  tears. 

Receive,  dear,  all  my  vows. 

And  all  my  praise; 
The  shadow  or  the  light 

Of  all  my  days. 

My  transports  full  of  love. 

And  void  of  wrongs, 
And  all  the  tender  words 

Of  all  my  songs. 

My  mind,  that  without  sail 
Floats  on  with  chance. 

And  knows  no  other  star 
Than  thy  bright  glance. 


TO  THEE! 


135 


My  muse,  too,  that  the  hours 

Now  cradle  soft, 
That,  weeping  when  thou  weep'st, 

Does  weep  full  oft. 

Receive,  clear,  all  my  wealth 

From  Heaven  above; 
My  heart,  where  naught  remains 

Without  its  love ! 


April  2d,  1865. 


SONG. 


If  there  be  a  charming  spot. 

All  wet  with  little  showers, 
Where,  in  every  season,  bloom 

Some  sweetly- budding  flowers; 
Where  we  pluck  whatever  grows, — 

Lily,  honeysuckle,  rose; 
I  will  make  the  pathway  there, 

Where  thy  foot,  dear,  can  repose! 

If  there  be  a  loving  breast 

Of  which  Honor  doth  dispose. 
And  whose  firm  devotion  ne'er 

Has  aught  sombre  or  morose ;  — 
If  this  noble  breast  does  beat 

With  some  purpose  good  and  meet, 
I  will  make  the  cushion  there. 

Where  thy  brow,  dear,  can  repose ! 

If  there  be  a  dream  of  love, 
All  perfumed  with  a  rose, 


SOXG. 


137 


"Wliere  one  finds  that  every  day 

Sometliiiig  good  and  worthy  grows,  — 

A  dream  that  God  has  blest, 
Where  soul  with  soul  may  rest, 

I  will  make  of  it  the  nest 

Where  thy  heart,  dear,  can  repose! 

April  :th,  1865. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER. 


Thou  seest,  my  child,  that  I  bow  nie  to  God; 
Do  like  me,  leave  the  world;  bear  Him  ever  in 
mind. 

Be  happy  here  ?  no  !   Be  triumphant  ?  still  less ! 
^  Be  resigned ! 

Be  good  e'er  and  pure,  and  a  pious  brow  raise, 
And  as  day  in  the  sky  its  flame  does  unroll; 
So  thou,  oh,  my  child,  in  the  blue  of  thine  eyes 
Put  thy  soul. 

No  man  here  can  triumph  or  happily  live ; 
The  hour's  a  thing  incomplete,  —  but  a  shade; 
The  hour 's  a  shadow,  —  of  that  our  life 
Must  be  made. 

Of  his  fate  every  man  is  aweary  at  heart. 
To  be  happy  on  earth,  in  this  life  full  of  pain. 
All  we  need  we  're  without,  and  that  all  only 
means 

Trifles  vain. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER. 


139 


These  trifles,  they  are  what  each  mau  for  his 
part, 

In  the  universe  seeks  aud  desires  the  while, — 
A  word  or  a  name,  or  some  gohl,  a  sweet  look, 
Or  a  smile ! 

The  niio'litv  crowned  kino^  without  love  has  no  ■ 

joy;  — 

Without  one  drop  of  dew  is  the  desert  immense; 
And  Life  is  a  well  where  the  void  ever  must 
Kecommence. 

See  these  thinkers,  my  child,  that  we  deify  so, 
See  these  heroes,  with  brows  e'er  resplendent 
and  l)right 

Above  us.  whose  horizons,  all  dark,  they  illume' 
With  their  light. 

After  having,  like  torches  with  flashing  bright 
flame. 

Dazzled  all  by  their  rays  that  never  can  fade. 
They  have  gone  now  to  seek,  in  the  depths  of 
the  tomb, 

Grateful  shade. 

Heaven   knows   our   sorrows,   aud   knows  our 
woes, 

Taketh  pity  on  our  vain  days  full  of  fears, 


140  TO  MY  DAUGHTER. 

And  each  morning  it  bathes  our  fair  golden 
dawns 

With  its  tears. 

God  enliglitens  us  all  here,  at  every  new  step, 
On  what  He  himself  is,  and  what  we  are  then; 
A  law  comes  from  things  here  below  on  this 
earth, 

And  from  men. 

To  this  holy  law,  dear,  every  soul  should  con- 
form : 

It  is  this,  —  it  may  easily  be  reached,  too,  by 
all,— 

Hate  nothing,  my  child,  love  all  here,  or  else 
Pity  all! 

May  1th,  1865. 


WHAT  THE  TWO  CAVALIERS  WERE  THINK- 
ING OF  IN  THE  FOREST. 

The  heavens  were  black,  in  the  wood  was  no 
light; 

At  my  side  Hermann  seemed  like  a  shade  of 
the  night; 

Our  horses  sped  on,  but  few  were  our  words ; 
The  clouds  in  the  heaven  resembled  fair  marble, 
The  stars,  through  the  trees  where  was  hushed 

every  warble. 
Fled  like  swarms  of  fiery  birds. 

Broken  down  by  a  grief  with  which  no  man 
could  cope. 

The  great  mind  of  Hermann  was  void  of  all 
hope. 

I  was  full  of  regrets,  but  my  sorrows  reposed. 
Then,  in  crossing  the  woods  in  the  night's 

darksome  glooms, 
Hermann  said,  "  I  am  thinking  of  half-opened 

tombs." 

And  I  said,  "I  am  thinking  of  those  that  are 
closed." 


142  THE  TWO  CAVALIERS. 

Hermann  ever  looks  forward,  I  ever  look  back; 
Our  horses  sped  on  in  tlie  forest's  dark  track; 
Then  the  angelus  rang*  from  the  far  distant 
shore. 

Of  all  those  who  are,  of  all  those  who  must  live." 
He  said,  "  I  am  thinking  of  those  who  must 
strive, 

And  I  said,     I  am  thinking  of  all  those  no 
more." 

The  founts  sang;  we  knew  not  what  words  the 

founts  spoke. 
The  oak  talked;  we  knew  not  what  murmured 

the  oak; 

Every  bush  with  another  talked  like  an  old 
friend. 

Hermann  said,  "Ne'er  the  woes  of  the  living 
can  end ; 

At  this  moment  eyes  watch,  and  other  eyes 
weep." 

And  I  answered,  "  Alas !  and  still  other  eyes 
sleep." 

Hermann  said,  "  Earthly  life  here  is  nothing 
but  woe ; 

Oh,  I  sigh  for  the  grave,  where  the  happy 
dead  go ; 

Where  the  grass  grows,  and  all  the  sweet 
flowers  can  bloom. 


THE  TWO  CAVALIERS.  143 

Tliey  all   are  caressed  by  tlie  flames  of  tlie 
night ; 

All  the  souls  there  are  calmed  by  the  sky  full 
of  light, 

At  the  same  time  in  every  tomb." 

And  I  answered,  "  Respect  for  the  dark  mys- 
tery ! 

'IN'eatli  our  feet,  in  the  earth,  the  dead  sleeping 
lie ; 

They  're  the  hearts  that  once  loved  thee,  the 

hearts  of  thy  choice, — 
Thy  father,  thy  mother,  thy  angel  now  dead. 
With  thy  irony  dark,  mock  them  never ! "  I 

said, 

'      For  as  if  through  a  dream  they  hear  our 
voice." 

May  VZth,  1865. 


AT  VILLEQUIER. 


Now  that  Paris,  its  streets,  and  its  temples, 
and  noise, 

And  its  mists  and  its  roofs  are  afar  from  mine 

eyes, 

That  I  sit  me  heneath  the  cool  shade  of  the 
trees, 

And  can  dream  of  the  heauty  and  light  of  the 
skies ; 

Now  that,  pale  hut  triumphant,  this  hour  I  can 

From  my  sorrow  depart, 
And  can  feel  the  sweet  peace  of  all  Nature  so 
grand, 

'  That  doth  enter  my  heart ; 

Now  that,  moved  hy  the  gorgeous  horizon  all 
still. 

As  I  sit  on  the  shore,  here,  and  see  the  waves 
pass, 

I  can  look  at  the  truths  that  lie  deep  in  my 
heart. 

And  the  flowerets  blooming  so  fair  in  the  grass. 


AT  VILLEQUIER.  145 

And  again,  oli,  mv  God,  tliat  I  feel  this  sad 
calm, 

That  I  can,  from  this  day, 
See  this  stone  with  mine  eyes,  where  I  know, 
in  the  gloom, 
That  she  sleepeth  for  aye. 

Xow  that,  softened  and  moved  by  these  sights 
so  divine, 

Plains  and  forests,  rocks,  Talleys,  and  silvery  rill. 
As  my  nothingness,  God,  and  thy  greatness  I 
see, 

I  can  bow  me  all  humbly  l)efore  thy  dread  will. 

I  now  come  to  thee.  Father,  whom  all  must 
b  eh  eve, 
And  I  bring,  as  a  token, 
The  crushed  fragments,  0  God,  of  my  heart 
full  of  love. 
Of  the  heart  thou  hast  broken. 

Yes,  I  come  to  thee,  God,  and  confess  that 
thou  art 

Good  and  clement,  indulgent  and  mild  ;  in  my 
grief 

I  acknowledge  that  thou  knowest  alone  what 
thou  dost. 

And  that  man  here  is  naught  but  a  frail  trem- 
bling leaf. 

10 


146 


AT  VILLEQUIER. 


The  tomb  slmts  on  tlie  dead,  but  it  opes  on  the 
sky 

That  above  us  doth  bend; 
And  in  life  the  beginning  of  all  is  but  that 
Which  we  take  for  the  end. 

Thou  possessest  the  real,  the  absolute,  all ! 
On  my  knees  I  submit,  with  thy  glory  now 
filled. 

Oh,  I  feel  it  is  good,  and  I  feel  it  is  just, 
That  my  heart  should  have  bled  thus,  since  God 
had  so  willed. 

I  no  longer  resist  aught  that  comes  from  thy 
hand. 

For  I  know  that  our  soul 
Doth  from  grief  unto  grief,  man  from  shore 
unto  shore, 
To  eternity  roll. 

On  this  earth  we  can  only  see  one  side  of  all; 
The  rest 's  plunged  in  the  night  of  a  mystery 
great. 

Man  submits  to  the  yoke  without  knowing  the 
cause,  — 

All  he  sees  here  is  short,  and  is  useless  and 
fleet. 

Thou  dost  ever  make  solitude  follow  his  steps, — 
Never  gladness  nor  mirth ! 


AT  VILLEQUIER.  147 

And  tliou  wiliest  not  that  we  slioulcl  certainty 
have^ 

Nor  bliss  on  this  earth. 

For  as  soon  as  one  joy  man  possesses  in  life, 
Fate  doth  snatch  it  away.    Oh,  thou  great  God 
above. 

Thou  hast  given  him  naught  that  he  ever  may 
say,— 

"Here,  now,  this  is  my  home,  and  my  fields, 
and  my  love  !  " 

We  can  look  but  a  moment  at  all  that  we  see, 
We  grow  old  with  no  shield. 

Since  these  things  are,  0  God,  't  is  because 
they  must  he,  — 
I  yield,  yes,  I  yield ! 

Earth  is  darksome,  0  Lord,  and  thy  harmony 
grand. 

Is  composed,  too,  of  sobs,  e'en  as  well  as  of 
song. 

Man 's  an  atom  in  all  of  this  infinite  gloom,  — 
Gloom,  where  pure   souls   ascend,  where  fall 
those  who  do  wrong. 


Oh,  I  know  indeed  well  thou  hast  else  to  do 
God, 

Than  to  pity  us  all; 


148  AT  VILLEQUIER. 

That  a  child  here  who  dies,  its  poor  mother's 
despair 
Is  to  thee  naught  at  all. 

And  I  know  the  fruit  falls  to  the  wind  that 
doth  blow; 

The  bird   loses  its   feather,   its  perfume  the 
flower ; 

And  Creation  is  only  a  great  giant  wheel. 
That  can  move  not  without  crushing  some  every 
hour. 


Months  and  days,  Ocean's  waves,  and  the  eyes 
that  weep,  pass 
'Neath  the  sky  at  thy  nod; 
And  the  grass  here  must  grow,  and  the  children 
must  die,  — 
Oh,  I  know  it,  my  God. 

In  thy  skies,  far  beyond  the  vast  sphere  of  the 
clouds. 

In  that  motionless   heaven   our  eyes  cannot 
scan ; 

Oh,  perhaps  there  unknown  things  thou  mak- 

est,  of  which 
E'er  one  element  must  be, — the  sorrow  of  man. 


And  perhaps  'tis  of  use  to  thy  purposes  great. 
Thou  should'st  .ever  take  back 


AT  VILLEQUIER. 


149 


Cherished  souls,  that  seem  borne  by  the  whirl- 
wind so  dread, 
Of  this  earth's  events  black. 

Our  destinies  dark  thou  dost  rule  by  great 
laws, 

That  naught  e'er  disconcerts,  and  that  nothing 
can  move; 

And  thou  canst  not,  0  God,  sudden  clemencies 
have, 

That  derange  the  whole  world.    All  is  fixed 
there  above. 

I  implore  thee,  0  God,  to  look  into  my  soul, 
Low  before  thee  struck  dumb ; 

For  as  humble  as  infant,  and  mild  as  a  maid, 
To  adore  thee  I  come. 

IS'ow  consider  I  had  from  the  dawn,  oh,  my 
God, 

Walked,  thought,  worked,  and  struggled  all  day 

for  the  right; 
Explaining  to  man  all  thy  works  he  knows  not, 
And  illuming  all  things  with  thy  great  divine 

light; 

That  I  had  here,  defying  man's  hatred  and 
wrath, 
Done  my  duty  to  thee ; 


150 


AT  VILLEQUIER. 


That  I  could  not  expect  then,  these  wages, 
0  God; 
That  I  could  not  foresee 

That  thou,  too,  on  my  trembling  and  bent 

mortal  head, 
Should  strike  me  thus  low  with  thy  chastening 

rod ; 

And  that  thou,  who  could' st  see  e'er  how  small 
was  my  joy. 

So  soon  should  take  from  me  my  child,  oh,  my 
God! 

A  soul  thus  struck  down  must  full  often  com- 
plain, — 
I  blasphemed  even  thee; 
And  I  threw  thee  my  cries  like  a  child  who 
casts  out 
A  stone  into  the  sea. 

When  we  suffer,  consider,   0  God,  that  we 
doubt,  — 

Eyes  that  weep  too  much  finish  in  blindness  at 
length,  — 

That  a  soul,  plunged  by  grief  in  the  deepest 

abyss, 

Wlien  it  sees  thee  no  more  cannot  bow  'neath 
thy  strength. 


AT  VILLEQUIER.     .  151 

And  man  cannot,  0  Lord,  when  lie  founders 
and  sinks 
In  Grief's  ocean  so  deep, 
In  his  mind,  of  thy  grand  constellations  nn- 
^     -  moved. 

The  serenity  keep. 

To-day,  I  who  was  weak  as  a  mother  before, 
I  fall  low  at  thy  feet,  like  a  reed  in  the  wind; 
And  I  feel  lighted  now,  in  my  deep,  hitter 
grief, 

By  the  glance  full  of  love  I  have  cast  on  man- 
kind. 

Man  is  crazy  to   murmur,  for  thou,  in  thy 
hands, 

Dost  his  destiny  keep. 
I  no  longer  accuse,  I  no  longer  blaspheme,  — - 

But,  0  God,  let  me  weep  ! 

Alas !  now  from  mine  eyes  let  the  sad  tears 
e'er  flow, 

Since  't  is   only  for  that  thou  createst  man 
here. 

Let  me  bend  me,  0  Lord,  now,  above  this  cold 
stone. 

And  say  soft  to  my  cliild^  "  Do  you  feel  I  am 
near  ?  " 


152 


AT  VILLEQUIER. 


Let  me  speak  to  her,  over  her  grave  thus  in- 
clined, 

And  her  eyes  may  tlien  shine, 
As  if,  in  the  still  night,  she  could  hear  my  low 
words,  — 
This  sweet  angel  of  mine ! 

Alas !  e'er  turning  thus  on  the  Past  my  sad  eyes. 
Naught  consoles  me  on  earth  when  my  thoughts 

backward  stray; 
I  can  see  but  that  hour,  in  all  of  my  life. 
When  she  opened  her  wings,  and  then  flew 

far  away. 

Yes,  that  moment  will  e'er  be  before  me  till 
death. 

When  for  aye  joy  was  o'er; 
When  I  cried, This  fair  child  that  this  instant 
was  mine. 
What !  I  have  her  no  more  !  " 

Feel  no  anger,  ♦O  God,  that  I  ever  should 
grieve. 

So  long  has  this  wound  bled  no  peace  can  I 
find ; 

And  my  soul's  anguish  now,  is  as  strong  as  at 
first. 

Though  my  heart  doth  submit,  it  can  ne'er  be 
resigned. 


AT  A^LLEQriER. 


153 


Feel  uo  auger,  ve  brows  that  to  sorrow  be- 
long, 

Mortals  ever  in  tears  ! 
*T  is  not  well  for  us  always  to  tear  our  souls 
From  these  griefs  and  these  fears. 

Only  look  !  our  children  we  need  veiy  much ; 
Oh,  my  God,  when  we  see  in  our  life  one  fair 
morn. 

In  the  midst  of  our  troubles  and  woes  and  the 
shade, 

Oui'  destiny  makes,  when  we  see  a  child  born ; 

A  sweet  infant,  a  loved  and  a  sacred  young 
head. 

With  its  bright  smiling  eyes ; 
So  fair  that  we  think,  at  its  birth,  thou  hast 
then 

Oped  a  door  of  the  skies. 

When  we  see  sixteen  years,  this  our  other  self, 
bloom, 

With  endearments,  from  which  we  ne'er  dream 

we  must  part ; 
When  we  see  that  this  child  we  so  tenderly 

love, 

Makes  the  light  of  our  house,  and  makes  day 
in  our  heart ;  — 


154 


AT  VILLEQUIER. 


That  this  joy  is,  of  all  of  the  joys  we  have 
dreamed, 

The  sole  one  that  will  stay;  — 
Then  consider,  0  God,  'tis  a  very  sad  thing 

To  see  this  go  away ! 

May  20th,  1865. 


THREE  YEAHS  AFTER. 


It  is  time  for  me  to  rest, 

I  can  do  naught  now,  but  weep ; 

Do  not  speak  to  me  of  aught, 

Save  dark  shadows  where  they  sleep. 

What  e'er  could  I  recommence  ? 

Xow  I  only  ask  —  God  knows  — 
Of  Creation,  all  immense, 

Some  calm  silence  and  repose. 

TVliy  thus  call  me  back  again  ? 

I  have  done  my  task  aright; 
He  who  worked  before  the  dawn 

Can  go  rest  before  the  night. 

At  Jbut  twenty  years  mine  eyes, 

Eyer  bent  upon  the  grass, 
Were  allowed  no  more  on  earth 

To  behold  my  mother  pass. 


156 


THREE  YEARS  AFTER. 


Then  she  left  us  for  the  tomb, 
And  you  know  well  that  to-day 

I  am  seeking,  in  this  gloom, 
One  more  angel  flown  away. 

You  now  know  that  I  despair; 

That  no  longer  am  I  mild. 
And,  as  father,  that  I  weep, 

Who  did  weep  so  much  as  child. 

You  all  say  my  work 's  not  o'er, 
Adam-like,  first  exiled  one, 

I  behold  my  fate  so  stern, 

And  see  well  that  I  have  done. 

The  sweet  child  God  tore  away 
Helped  me  merely  in  her  love; 

'T  was  my  joy  to  see  her  gaze 
Up  at  me,  so  far  above. 

If  God  would  not  end  the  task 
For  which  ever  I  did  strive. 

If  He  wishes  me  to  work, 
He  need  only  let  her  live. 

He  need  only  let  me  live. 
With  my  daughter,  fair  to  see. 

In  this  bliss,  where  I  e'er  saw 
Lights  all  full  of  mystery,  — 


THREE  YEAES  AETER. 


157 


Dazzling  lights  from  other  spheres. 

God,  thou  sellest  wisdom  dear  ! 
Why  didst  take  from  me  the  light 

That  I  had  in  this  Kfe  here  ? 

Didst  thou  think.  0  ]\[aster  dread, 

Seeing  Thee  from  day  to  day. 
This  fair  child  T  saw  no  more, 

And  she  well  might  go  awav  ? 

Didst  Thou  think  that  man — vain  shade  — 
His  heart  loses  here,  in  sooth, 

When  that  splendor  dark  he  sees. 
That  we  name  in  this  world  Truth  ? 

Thou  could'st  strike,  he 'd  feel  it  not, 
His  heart 's  dead,  v^dthout  one  bliss  ? 

That,  by  looking  on  the  gulf, 
He 's  within  but  an  abyss  ? 

That  he  '11  go  where  he  is  sent. 
Coldly,  hieath  the  heavens  blue '? 

With  no  longer  any  joys, 

He  can  have  no  sorrows,  too  ? 

That  a  tender  soul  to  Thee 

Opes,  to  s^iut  more  close  its  door 

And  that  those  who 'd  understand, 
End  by  loving  here  no  more  ? 


THEEE  YEARS  AFTER. 


Didst  thou  truly  think,  0  God, 
I  preferred,  beneath,  the  skies. 

Thy  dread  glory's  awful  ray, 
To  the  sweet  light  of  her  eyes? 

Had  I  known  that  here  below, 
By  thy  stern  laws,  without  ruth. 

To  one  mind  thou  givest  not 

These  things,  —  Happiness  and  Truth, 

I  thy  veils  would  not  have  raised. 
Seeking,  pure  heart  with  no  mirth, 

To  see  Thee  beyond  the  stars, 
Oh  dark  God  of  a  dark  earth ! 

No,  I  should  have,  far  from  thee. 
Kept  a  straight  road,  calm  and  mild, 

Glad  to  be  an  unknown  man. 
Passing,  leading  on  a  child. 

To  be  left  by  all  I  wish. 

Fate  has  conquered,  I  depart; 

What  all  would  ye  light  again 
In  the  gloom  that  fills  my  heart? 

Ye  who  speak  to  me,  now  say 

That  I  must  be  strong  and  proud; 

Toward  the  far  horizon's  light 
I  must  lead  the  falt'ring  crowd. 


THREE  YEARS  AETER. 


And  when  people  all  arise^  — 
An  aim  thinkers  have,  alas  !  — 

Thev  belong  to  those  who  dream, 
They  belong  to  those  who  pass. 

That  a  soul  with  fires  pnre, 

Should  then  hasten  with  its  light, 

Of  earth's  ages  yet  to  come. 
The  sublime  enlightening  bright ; 

That,  true  hearts,  we  must  take  part, 
Without  fearing  wave  or  winds. 

In  the  feasts  of  new  things  now. 
In  the  struggles  of  great  minds. 

Ye  see  tears  upon  my  cheeks. 

And  accost  me  in  strange  tongue^ 

As  a  man  would  moye  and  shake 
One  who  sleeps  too  late  and  long. 

But,  oh  think  of  what  ye  do  ! 

This  fair  angel  in  the  gloom^ 
When  ye  call  me  to  your  feasts, 

May  feel  cold  there  in  her  tomb. 

Perhaps,  pale  and  liyid,  then, 
She  says,  softly,  as  of  old,  — - 

"  Does  my  father  now  forget 

To  come  here,  that  I 'm  so  cold  ?  • ' 


THREE  YEARS  AFTER. 

What !  when  scarce  I  can  resist 
Mem'ries  sad  that  make  me  dumb; 

When  I 'm  broken,  weary,  faint. 

When  I  hear  her  whisper,  "  Come ! " 

What !  you  wish  me  to  desire 

All  earth's  fragile,  useless  joys ;  — 

Praise  that  follows  poets  here, 
And  the  paladin's  loud  noise  ! 

And  you  wish  me  to  aspire 

To  bright  triumphs,  when  I  cope 

With  my  fate,  and  dawn  announce 
To  weak  dreamers,  crying  "  Hope  !  " 

In  the  struggle's  heat  you  wish, 

'Midst  strong  brows,  to  see  my  head ; 

On  the  starry  vault  mine  eyes ! 

Oh !  dark  grass,  where  lie  the  dead/ 

June  2d,  1865. 


ABIDE  IN  HOPE. 


Where  on  earth  thou  spread'st  thy  tent, 

As  night  falleth  from  above, 
Do  not  ever  ask  for  Joy, 

But  content  thyself  with  Love. 

Man 's  a  tree  whose  sap  doth  fail 
Ere  he's  in  his  flower  and  pride; 

And  his  fate  is  ne'er  worked  out, 
Save  on  Sorrow's  gloomy  side. 

All  seek  Joy  together  here. 

And  to  all,  Hope  smileth  bright; 

Each  extends  a  trembling  hand 
To  some  object  far,  of  light. 

But  to  each  soul,  meek  or  proud. 

Woe  mounts,  ere  its  course  he  notes, 

Like  a  ghost  with  feet  of  stone,  — 
All  the  rest,  here,  vaguely  floats. 
11 


ABIDE  IN  HOPE. 


We  have  iianglit  on  earth  but  Grief, — 
Bliss,  for  weeping  mankind  here, 

Is  a  fleeting  image  vain 

Of  the  things  that  are  elsewhere. 

Hope 's  the  dim,  uncertain  dawn 
On  our  end ;  't  is,  as  we  see. 

Like  the  gilding,  bright  and  fair, 
Of  a  ray  of  mystery. 

The  reflection,  mist,  or  flame 
That  e'er  poureth  from  on  high. 

In  its  calm,  upon  our  souls. 
All  the  joy  of  the  blue  sky. 

'Tis  the  lovely  visions  white. 
That  e'er  see  man's  cursed  eyes 

Through  the  branches,  waving  fair, 
Of  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

'Tis  the  shade  upon  our  strand 

That  these  lovely  trees  e'er  throw. 
Of  which,  in  its  dreams,  the  soul 
•  Hears  the  rustling,  soft  and  low. 

This  reflection,  pale  of  bliss. 
We  call  Joy  upon  this  sod; 

And  we  would  the  shadow  seize, 
While  the  thing  belongs  to  God. 


ABIDE  IN  HOPE. 


163 


Away !  none  can  rise  so  high ; 

God  will  still  on  earth  man  keep. 
We  may  smile  at  what  we  dream, 

But  o'er  what  we  have  we  weep. 

Since  a  God  at  Calv'ry  hied, 

Murmur  not,  weak  man  or  child. 

Suffer  !    'T  is  the  .law  severe,  — 
Love !    It  is  the  dictate  mild. 

Let  us  love  !  Be  two  !  The  wise 
Ne'er  alone  is  in  his  bark. 

The  two  eyes  e'er  make  the  face; 
The  two  wings  e'er  make  the  lark. 

Be  united  !    All  invites 

To  Love,  ere  with  Fate  we  cope; 
Let  us  have  here  but  one  Life ! 

Let  us  have  here  but  one  Hope ! 

In  this  lying  world  I 'd  love 
All  the  grief  that  e'er  was  mine ; 

If  my  visions  were  thy  dreams. 
If  my  tears  were  only  thine ! 

June  &th,  1865. 


NIGHTS  IN  JUNE. 

When  in  summer  daj^  flees,  the  plain  covered 

with  flowers, 
Sweetest  perfumes  exhales,  that  its  blossoms 

e'er  keep; 

With  closed  eyes,  and  with  ears  but  half  oped 

to  the  noise, 
Then  we  only  sleep  half  with  a  transparent 

sleep. 

The  stars  seem  more  pure,  and  the  shadow 
more  soft, 

A  vague   twilight   illumes  the   eternal  dome 
high. 

And  Dawn,  mild  and  pale,  while  awaiting  her 
hour. 

Seems  to  wander  all  night  on  the  edge  of  the 
sky. 

June  m,  1865. 


EVENING  AT  SEA. 


Neae  the  fislier  in  the  dark, 
While  we  both,  as  daylight  flies, 
Slowly  wander  in  our  bark. 
And  to  frail  man's  song  we  hark. 
And  the  mighty  wave's  low  sighs; 

'Neath  the  shadow  of  the  sail. 
As  we  sit  us  now  both  down ; 
While  thy  fair  face  thou  dost  veil, 
And  thy  glance,  from  the  stars  pale, 
Seems  to  bring  all  bright  rays  down ; 

When  what  Nature  now  doth  hide, 
We  can  neither  read  the  while, 
Tell  me,  oh,  my  lovely  bride. 
Why  my  sad  heart  erst  low  sigli'd  ? 
Why  thine  angel  brow  doth  smile? 

Say,  why  like  a  bitter  bowl, 

E'en  though  brought  thus  near  to  thee, 

Do  sad  thoughts  now  fill  my  soul? 


EVENING  AT  SEA. 


^Tis  that  I  see  dark  waves  roll, 
And  bright  heaven  thou  dost  see. 

'Tis  that  I  see  billows  dread, 
Thou  the  mystic  stars  so  bright, 
And  all  lost  and  sore  afraid, 
Alas !  I  but  mark  the  shade, 
While  thou  only  see'st  the  light. 

Each  one,  —  'tis  the  law  supreme, — . 
To  the  end,  rows  on  in  pain. 
Not  one  man,  —  oh,  fatal  scheme  !  — 
Tills  and  sows  not,  does  it  seem. 
Upon  something  here  in  vain. 

Man  is  on  a  wave  that  sighs. 
And  the  storm-wind  tears  his  cape; 
He  rows  on  beneath  night's  skies. 
And  bright  hope,  before  his  eyes. 
Through  the  boat's  chinks  doth  escape. 

Tempests  tear  his  sail  away,  — 
It  is  tattered  even  now; 
On  his  path  the  waters  play. 
And  obstructions  in  his  way 
Foam  up  ever  at  the  prow, 

Alas !  all  works  here  below, 
'Neath  thine  eyes,  God  far  away ! 


EVENING  AT  SEA. 


On  whatever  side  we  go 

Doth  some  shudd'ring  wavelet  flow. 

And  some  man  goes  sad  away. 

Where  dost  thou  go  ?    To  the  Mght ! 
Where  goest  thou  P    To  Day  above  ! 
ThoiiP    I  seek  if  Doubt  be  right! 
Thou  ?    Toward  glory  do  I  move  ! 
And  thou,  too  ?    I  go  to  Love  ! 

No !  ye  all  go  to  the  tomb  ! 
To  the  unknown,  dreaded  bourn. 
Vulture,  eagle,  dove,  midst  gloom, 
Wliere  all  fall  on  earth  that  bloom. 
And  whence  none  can  e'er  return. 

Ye  all  go  where  those  are  gone, 
With  most  glory  and  most  light. 
With  the  flower  Spring  gilds  bright. 
*  Ye  all  go  where  goes  the  dawn. 
Ye  all  go  where  goes  the  night. 

To  what  end  are  all  these  woes  ? 
Why  such  jealous  watch  here  keep  ? 
Drink  the  fountain's  wave  that  flows. 
Take  the  acorn  ere  it  grows. 
And  then  love,  and  rest  in  sleep. 

When,  like  bees  with  busy  flight, 
We  have  worked  and  toiled  alway; 


168 


EVENING  AT  SEA. 


When  we 've  dreamed  of  wonders  bright, 
And  when,  on  many  a  night, 
We 've  heaped  up  many  a  day,  — 

On  the  fairest  rose  of  all. 

On  your  lily's  purest  bloom. 

Do  you  know  what  then  must  fall  ? 

Dark  oblivion  for  all. 

And  for  every  man  the  tomb ! 

For  the  Lord  e'er  takes  away, 
As  they  're  plucked,  our  fruits  all  frail ; 
To  the  ship,  "Sink!"  doth  He  say; 
To  the  flame,    Now  die  away ! " 
And  to  the  flower,  "Pale!" 

To  the  warrior  doth  He  call, 
"E'er  the  last  word  I  must  keep. 
Mount,  0  worldly  king  of  all, 
Highest  summit  has  the  fall. 
To  abyss  most  dark  and  deep." 

And  He  says  to  beauty  fair, — 
"  Dazzle  now  all  eyes  thou  must ; 
Ere  Death ,  cometh  with  Despair, 
Be  once  flame  and  sparkle  fair. 
Then,  forever,  be  thou  dust ! " 

This  dread  order  swallows  here 
Everything,  —  it  is  our  fate. 


EVENING  AT  SEA. 

Mortal,  niurmnr,  if  you  dare, 
Unto  God,  who,  0  Despair ! 
Made  man  little,  heaven  great. 

Each,  e'en  though  he  e'er  denies, 
Strugg'les,  working  out  his  path. 
The  eternal  harmonies. 
Like  an  irony  man  sees. 
Weighing  down  this  human  WTath. 

All  false  joys  we  envy  so, 
Pass,  like  Summer  eve,  unmoved 
To  the  shadow  all  must  go. 
What  remains  of  life  below, 
Saving'  only  to  have  loved. 

It  is  thus  I  bend  my  head. 
E'en  whilst  thou  dost  raise  thine  eyes 
Thus,  upon  the  waters  dread, 
I  now  listen  sore  afraid. 
To  the  murmuring  wave's  sighs. 

Thus  I  question  all,  and  crave 
Answers  that  ne'er  come  to  me. 
In  this  gulf,  where  I  would  lave, 
The  earth  mixes  with  the  wave. 
Thou,  oh,  never  do  like  me ! 

On  the  waters  dark  I  now 
Ever  turn  my  weary  eye. 


EVENING  AT  SEA. 


But  oh,  loved  and  veiled  soul,  thou 
Toward  bright,  starry  hope  thy  brow 
Dost  forever  raise  on  high. 

Thou  dost  well.    Each  star  appears, 
Watch,  and  never  know  vain  fears. 
Thou  art  drawn  on  high  the  while. 
For  above  thou  see'st  God's  smile, 
And  below  I  see  man's  tears ! 

June  23c/,  1865. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  BUTTERFLY. 


To  the  heavenly  butterfly,  "  Soar  not  afar ! " 

The  poor  flower  did  say. 
"Only  see  how  we  differ,  —  I  e'er  must  remain, 

While  thou  fly'st  away. 

"And  yet  well  do  we  love,  we  can  live  without 
man, 

And  far  from  his  power; 
We  resemble  each  other,  't  is  said  that  we  are, 
Each  one,  a  bright  flower. 

"  But  alas !  air  takes  thee,  and  the  earth  en- 
chains me. 

Ah,  woe,  cruel  fate ! 
Oh,  I  would  with  my  perfume  embalm  thy 
winged  flight 

To  heaven's  high  gate. 

"  But  too  far  dost  thou  go,  and  'midst  myriad 
flowers 

Thou  ever  dost  fleet; 


172       THE  ROSE  AND  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

E'en  while  I  stay  alone  and  watch  sadly  my 
shade 

Turn  round  at  my  feet. 

"Thou   soarest,  returnest,  and  then  soarest 
again. 

To  sooth  others'  fears; 
And  't  is  thus  at  each  dawn,  here,  thou  findest 
me,  love, 

All  bathed  in  my  tears. 

"  Oh  now,  so  that  our  love  may  have  long 

faithful  days, 

My  king,  take  like  me, 
Deepest  root  in  the  earth,  or  else  give  to  me 

wings 

E'en  like  unto  thee!" 


LTXVOI  TO 


All^    roses    and    butterflies,    together  Death 
brings, 

Or  sooner  or  late  ; 
Come,  oil  wilt  tliou  not  live  with  me  some- 
where, my  love  ? 

For  what  dost  thou  wait  ? 

Some  place  in  the  air,  if 't  is  there  thou  wouldst 
wing 

Thy  heavenly  flight, 
Or  some  spot  in  the  fields,  if  thy  chalice  there 
pours 

Its  treasures  so  bright. 

TVhere  thou  wilt !    Oh,  what  matters  it  ?  Be 
thou  my  life. 

My  perfume,  my  flower. 
My  radiant  butterfly,  my  blossom-cup  full, 

The  light  of  each  hour. 


174  L'ENVOI  TO   — . 

Let  us  first  live  together.    That  joy  we  must 
have. 

And  when  that  bliss  is  given, 
We  can  choose  as  we  will,  'tis  the  same,  then, 
our  home 

On  earth  or  in  heaven ! 

June  25th,  1865. 


TO  A  WOMAN. 


Child,  if  I  were  a  king  I 'd  my  kingdom  cast 
down, 

And  my  car,  and  my  sceptre,  and  warriors  true, 
And  my  porphyry  baths,  and  my  bright  golden 
crown, 

And  my  fleets,  and  my  people  on  knees  falling 
down. 

For  a  glance,  dear,  from  you. 

And  I 'd  give,  were  I  God,  all  the  wavy  blue 
air. 

All  the  angels  and  demons  who  bent  me  their 
knee. 

And  the  chaos  so  deep,  and  the  green  earth  so 
fair, 

And  eternity,  space,  and  the  skies,  —  naught 
I 'd  spare,  — 

For  a  kiss,  dear,  from  thee. 

June  2m,  1865. 


TO  L- 


All  hope  here  below,  oh,  my  child,  is  a  reed, — 
God  holds  our  joys  in  his  hands,  my  sweet 
dove. 

Unwinding  them  at  his  fell  distaff  with  speed. 
Then,  breaketli  the  thread,  joy  falls  down  into 
gloom. 

For  in  every  cradle 
There  germs  a  tomb. 

Oh,  unto  my  dazzled  soul,  erst  in  the  past. 
The  future  seemed  like  a  bright  veil  from  afar: 
I  saw  flowers  of  light  burst  forth  in  the  shade. 
The  sea  with  its  halcyon,  sky  with  its  star. 
Now  this  vision  so  bright, 
Alas !  fades  from  my  sight. 

If  near  thee  one  weeps  as  in  dreams  he  doth  go. 
Let  him  weep  without  seeking  the  cause  e'en  to 
know. 


TO  L  .  177 

It  is  sweet,  oft,  to  weep.    Tears  bless,  as  they 
flow,  . 

Weak  mankind,  alas !  on  whom  Fate  dark  doth 
weigh. 

Each  tear,  oh,  my  child, 
Wipes  something  away. 

June  1st,  1865. 

12 


GUITARE. 


"How  now,"  said  the  youths, 
"With  our  barks  so  slow, 
Flee  the  alguazils?" 
And  the  maids  said,  "  Kow  ! " 

"  How  now,"  said  the  youths, 
"Never  grieve  or  weep, 
And  all  wrongs  forget?" 

And  the  maids  said,  "  Sleep  !  " 

"How  now,"  said  the  youths, 
"Beauty  thrill  and  move 
With  no  subtle  spells?" 

And  the  maids  said,  "  Love  ! " 

June  1865. 


THE  STREAMLET  AND  THE  OCEAN. 


From  the  rocks  once  there  flowed  down  the 
streamlet,  " 
Drop  by  drop,  to  the  terrible  sea; 
And  the  Ocean,  to  mariners  fatal, 

Said,  "  0  weeper,  what  wouldst  thou  with 
me? 

"I  am  tempest,  and  darkness,  and  terror; 

I  but  end  where  the  sky  doth  commence. 
Have  I  need,  then,  of  thee,  oh,  thou  stream- 
let, — 

Thou  so  little,  and  I  so  immense?" 

Said  the  stream  to  the  darksome  gulf  bitter, — 

"Without  glory  I  come  to  thy  brink; 
And  I  bring  thee,  vast  sea,  what  thou  hast 
not,  — 

A  fresh  drop  of  pure  water  to  drink." 

June  2ith,  1865. 


TO 


Since  thy  days  on  earth  are  filled 
With  grief  that  shatters  pride ; 

Since  the  things  that  thou  unit'st 
Are  detached  on  every  side; 

Since  our  fathers  now  are  gone 
Where  we  all  of  us  must  go; 

Since  our  children,  cherished  heads, 
Now  hefore  iis  slumber  low; 

Since  the  earth  o'er  which  thou  how'st. 
Where  thy  tears  flow  in  sad  showers. 

Has  already  all  our  roots. 

And  has  some,  too,  of  our  flowers ; 

Since  the  voices  we  have  loved 
Join  with  those  we  love,  at  last; 

Since  our  very  dreams  are  filled 
With  the  shadows  of  the  Past; 


TO 


Since  e'er  Sorrow  overflows 

When  with  bliss  we  burn  and  thrill 
Since  our  life  is  like  a  vase 

Man  can  empty  not^  nor  fill; 

Since  at  every  step  we  feel 
Shadows  thicken,  like  a  spell; 

Since  now  lying  Hope  for  us 
Has  no  longer  tales  to  tell; 

Since  the  hour  can  promise  naught 
For  the  morrow,  now  so  nigh; 

Since  we  know  no  longer  one 
Of  all  those  who  pass  us  by; 

Raise  thy  mind  beyond  this  world, 
Elsewhere  dream  than  here  below; 

In  our  wave  is  not  thy  pearl, 
Nor  thy  path  where  we  all  go. 

When  the  night-sky  is  not  starred 
On  the  sea's  waves,  far  from  strife, 

Dream,  the  sea  is  veiled  like  Death, 
The  waves  bitter  are,  like  Life. 

Gulfs  and  shades  a  mystery  have. 
Known  to  no  poor  mortal  weak; 

It  is  God  who  made  them  mute 
Till  the  day  when  all  will  speak. 


TO 


Other  eyes  have  tried  to  pierce 
These  deep  waves,  in  days  gone  by, 

Other  eyes  have  filled  with  shade, 
As  they  looked  upon  the  sky. 

Thou  ask  peace  for  thy  sad  heart 
Of  the  world  so  full  of  wrong ! 

Ask  a  drop  from  out  this  urn, 
From  this  music  ask  a  song! 

Let  thine  eyes  e'er  wander  far. 
As  thou  soarest  from  our  glooms, 

'Twixt  the  sky,  where  are  the  souls. 
And  the  earth,  where  are  the  tombs. 

June  \st,  1865. 


THE  BRIDGE. 


Befoee  me  was  gloom.  Tlie  abyss  full  of  woes. 
The  abyss  that  no  shore,  no  summit  e'er  knows. 
Was  there,  dark,  immense.    Xothing  moved  in 

the  gloom, 
I  felt  myself  lost  in  the  Infinite,  dumb. 
Through  all  of  the  shade,  like  a  veil,  down  afar. 
There  God  could  be  seen,  like  a  gloomy,  dark 

star. 

"  My  soul,  oh,  my  soul ! ''  I  cried  forth  in  my 
fears, 

"  To  traverse  this  gulf,  where  no  shore  now  ap- 
pears. 

And  to  go  where  the  Lord  walks,  afar  in  the 
night. 

On  millions  of  arches,  a  bridge  I  must  build. 
Who  e'er  could  do  that  ?    [N'one  !    0  sorrow ! 
0  fright! 

Weep ! "    A  phantom  arose,  with  awe  was  I 
filled 

As  I  cast  on  the  shade  an  eye  full  of  fear. 
The  spectre  so  pale  had  the  form  of  a  tear. 


184 


THE  BRIDGE. 


'T  was  the  hrow  of  a  maid,  with  hands  of  a 

child,  — 
A  lily  defended  by  purity  mild. 
Her  hands,  as  she  clasped  them,  a  bright  light 

did  show. 

She  looked  at  th'  abyss  where  all  dust  e'er  must 
go; 

So  deep  that  no  echo  can  answer,  all  filled 
With  gloom,  and  she  said,  then,  "  This  bridge 

will  I  build." 
I  looked  at  the  phantom,  so  pale  and  so  fair, — 
"  Thy  name  ? "  then  I  asked,  and  she  answered 

me,     Prayer  !  " 

May  mh,  1865. 


TO  KIXG  LOUIS-PHILIPPE. 


WEITTEX  AT  MIDXTGHT,  THE  1  2TH  OF  JULY,  AFTER  THE 
SENTENCE  OF  DEATH  PRONOUNCED  JULY  12Tn, 1839. 

Fon  thine  an  gel,  flown  off  like  a  dove  in  the 
gloom, 

For  thine  own  royal  infant,  poor  frail  little 
thing, 

Mercy !     Pardon,  once  more,  in  the  name  of 
the  tomb. 

In  the  name  of  the  cradle,  oh,  mercy,  great 
King ! 

May  2Zd,  1865. 


WRITTEN  ON  THE  TOMB  OF  A  LITTLE 
CHILD  BY  THE  SEA-SHORE. 


Old  ivy,  fresli  grass,  shrubs,  branches,  green 
boughs. 

Church,  where  man  sees  the  God  that  elsewhere 

he  dreams, 

Bright  insects  that  murmur  ineffable  words, 
I'  the  shepherd's  ear,  sleeping  beneath  the  sun's 
beams ; 

Winds,  waves,  stormy  hymn,  endless  song,  voices 
loud. 

And  woods  that  wake  dreams  in  the  sad  passer- 
by; 

Fruits,  e'er  falling  down  from  the  dark  gloomy 
tree. 

And  stars  that  fall  down  from  the  dim  obscure 
sky; 

Birds,  with  songs  full  of  joy,  and  waves  with 
sad  sighs. 

Green  lizards,  so  cold  in  the  sun  and  the  rain; 


ON  THE  TOMB  OF  A  LITTLE  CHILD.  187 

Plains,  spreading  your  perfumes  afar  on  the 
waves ; 

Sea,  wliere  groweth  the  pearl ;  earth,  where 
bursts  forth  the  grain; 

And  Xature,  whence   comes  and  where  falls 
again  all; 

Leaves,    nests,    and    sweet   boughs   that  the 

breezes  glad  keep ; 
Oh,  be  ye  all  hushed  now,  around  this  low 

grave, 

Let  the  child  slumber  on,  and  the  poor  mother 
weep  ! 

June  1st,  I860.  ' 


OCEANO  NOX. 


Ah  !  how  many  poor  sailors  and  captains  there 
are. 

Who,  all  joyous,  departed  for  travels  afar, 
And,  upon  this  horizon,  have  vanished  for  aye! 
And  how  many  have  sunk  now,  oh,  sad,  gloomy 
fate! 

In  this  endless  deep  sea,  in  some  moonless 
night,  late, 

And  beneath  this  blind  ocean  are  buried  away. 

With  their  vessels,  oh,  how  many  captains  have 
died! 

The  wild  storm  of  their  life  in  their  flower  and 
pride. 

With  one  breath,  each  page  scattered,  beneath 

the  waves  dark. 
None  can  e'er  know  the  fate  of  those  plunged 

in  this  grave ; 
As  it  passed,  with  some  booty  was  laden  each 

wave. 

One  the  sailors  had  seized,  and  another  the 
bark. 


OCEAXO  XOX. 


189 


IS'one  cau  e'er  know  vour  fate,  oli,  poor  heads, 

now  all  lost ! 
Ye  roll  on  tlirougli  this  sea  that  ye  each  would 

have  cross'd. 
And  ye  strike  with  dead  brows  unknown  rocks, 

far  from  shore. 
Oh,  the  parents,  with  only  a  dream  left  on  land, 
Who  have  died  as  they  waited  each  day  on  the 

strand, 

For  those  lost  ones  who  ne'er  have  returned  to 
them  more  ! 

Many  speak  of  you  yet,  and  while  seated 
around 

Upon  rusty  old  anchors  all  over  the  ground. 
Blend  your  names,  covered  over  with  shadows 
so  deep, 

With  their  laughs  and  their  songs,  and  now, 

since  ye  have  died, 
With  the  kisses  they  steal  from  your  loves, 

once  your  pride. 
Whilst  *mid  tangled  green  sea-weed  ye  quietly 

sleep. 

They  ask,  Where  have  they  gone  ?  In  some 
isle  that  none  share 

Are  they  kings  ?  Have  they  left  us  for  coun- 
tries more  fair  ?  " 

Then  your  memory 's  buried  at  last  1  Xo  mau 
knows 


190  OCEANO  NOX. 

Of  your  life.    The  form 's  lost,  from  the  mind 

the  name 's  past. 
Time,  who  o'er  every  shade  doth  a  deeper  one 

cast, 

O'er  the  ocean  so  dark  hlack  Oblivion  throws. 

And  your  shade  from  all  eyes  here  has  disap- 
peared now. 

Has  not  this  man  his  bark?  Has  not  that  man 
his  plough? 

But  in  long  stormy  nights,  from  all  others 
apart. 

Your   sad  widows,   pale-browed,  though  sore 

weary,  await. 
And  they  whisper  and  dream  of  you,  even  thus 

late, 

As  the  ashes  they  stir  of  their  hearthstone  and 
heart. 

When  the  darksome  tomb  closes  their  eyes  and 
they  're  gone. 

Nothing  knows  then  your  name,  even  no  hum- 
ble stone 

In  the  graveyard  so  narrow,  where  echo  re- 
plies ; 

Nor  the  willow,  now  green,  that  in  Autumn  is 
bare. 

Nor  the  song,  with  its  simple,  monotonous  air, 
That  the  beggar,  who  sits  on  some  bridge, 
sings  and  sighs. 


OCEANO  NOX. 


191 


Where  are  all  those  now  gone  who  dark  ^nights 

found  their  graves  ? 
Oh,  ye  know  mournful  histories,  murmuring 

waves,  — 

Waves  that  mothers  who  pray  fear  and  tremble 
at  so !  — 

And  ye  tell  these  sad  t^Jes  to  the  earth  and 
the  air; 

And  that  gives  you  those  voices,  all  choked  with 
despair, 

That  ye  sob  with  at  evening  when  toward  us  ye 
flow. 

June  27th,  1865. 


THE  CAPTIVE. 


If  I  were  not  captive  here, 
Oil,  this  country  would  seem  sweet. 
And  this  plaintive  sea,  that  moans, 
And  these  fields  of  golden  wheat. 
And  these  myriad  bright  stars, 
If,  then,  only  in  the  shade, 
Did  not  gleam  along  the  wall. 
Every  Spahi's  sabre-blade. 

Not  a  Tartar  maid  am  I 
That  a  eunuch  black  should  pass 
In  my  hands  my  stringed  guitar, 
And  should  hold  for  me  my  glass. 
From  these  Sodom s,  far  away 
In  the  country  where  I  live. 
With  the  gay,  young  cavaliers. 
One  can  sit  and  talk  at  eve. 

And  yet  I,  too,  love  a  shore 
Where  dark  Winter's  tempests  keen 
Never  reach  you,  cold  and  drear. 
The  oped  lattice  bars  between. 


THE  CAPTIVE. 


193 


There  the  rain,  in  Summer's  warm, 
And  the  insects  green,  that  pass, 
Ail,  like  living  emeralds,  gleam 
In  the  caskets  of  green  grass. 

Oh,  fair  Smyrna  is  a  queen, 
With  her  graceful  chapel  tall ; 
Happy  Spring,  forever  here, 
Swiftly  answers  to  her  call. 
E'en,  as  in  a  cup,  are  grouped 
Blooms  from  every  flower  that  grows, 
In  her  seas  the  isles  all  break 
Into  archipelagoes. 

All  these  towers,  fair,  I  love. 
And  these  banners  floating  gay. 
And  gold  houses,  like  frail  toys, 
Wherewith  any  child  might  play. 
And  I  love  my  thoughts  to  be 
Ever  cradled,  sweet  and  soft. 
In  these  bright  pagodas,  perched 
On  the  elephants  aloft. 

In  these  fairy-like  abodes 
Xow  my  joyous  heart,  ne'er  dumb. 
Thinks  it  hears,  in  all  the  sounds 
From  the  Desert  far  that  come. 
All  the  genii's  voices  sweet. 
Blending  harmonies  so  fair, 

13 


THE  CAPTIVE. 


In  the  hymns  and  songs  they  chant 
Ever  up  in  the  bhie  air. 

And  I  love  the  burning  scents 

Of  this  country's  forest  scene; 

On  the  casement  gold  I  love 

All  the  trembling  foliage  green. 

And  the  stream,  whose  wave  o'erflows. 

And  the  drooping  palm-tree,  wet. 

And  the  snowy  stork  that  sits 

On  the  pure  white  minaret. 

On  a  bed  of  moss  I  love 
To  sing  low  some  Spanish  song, 
While  my  young  companions  fair 
On  the  sward  all  dance  along,  — 
Smiling,  wandering  legion  bright. 
Like  the  ocean's  waves  that  roll. 
Ever  whirling,  in  their  dance, 
'Neath  their  rounded  parasol. 

But  still  more,  when  soft  the  breeze 
Doth  caress  me,  fluttering  by 
At  calm  night,  I  love  to  dream 
By  the  sea,  while  in  the  sky 
The  fair  moon  arises  pale. 
Far  above  the  ocean's  span, 
And  below,  upon  the  wave, 
Opens  wide  her  silver  fan. 

July  1st,  1865. 


LOVE. 


0  FAIR  maiden,  at  first  Love  is  only  a  glass 
Where  coquettes  like  to  mirror  tlieir  face  as 

they  pass, 
Bending  over  it,  dreaming  or  bright. 
Then,  like  Virtue,  when  once  it  possesses  the 

heart, 

It  makes  evil  and  all  mocking  vices  depart, 
And  it  maketli  your  soul  pure  and  white. 

Then  you  fall  just  a  little,  your  foot  slips,  you 
bend  ; 

'T  is  a  darksome  abvss,  vain  vou  clin^"  to  the 
end  ; 

The  wild  water's  deception  you 've  found. 
Love  is  charming  and  mortal.    0  maid,  trust  it 
not  1 

Thus  the  child,  slowly  drawn  to  a  stream's  smil- 
ing spot. 

First  is  mirrored,  then  laves,  then  is  drowned. 


July  1865. 


SONG. 


If  to  me  you  have  nothing  to  say, 

What  doth  bring  you,  love,  here  to  my  side? 
And  why  smile  at  me  now  in  that  way. 

That  would  turn  a  king's  head,  in  your  pride  ? 
If  to  me  you  have  nothing  to  say. 

What  doth  bring  you,  love,  here  to  my  side? 

If  to  me  you  have  nothing  to  tell, 

Oh,  why  press  you  my  hand  in  that  way  ? 

Of  the  tender  and  angel-like  spell, 
That  you  dream  as  you  pass  on  your  way. 

If  to  me  you  have  nothing  to  tell. 

Oh,  why  press  you  my  hand  in  that  way? 

If  you  wish  me  to  go  now  away. 

Tell  me,  why  do  you  pass,  love,  by  here? 

When  I  see  you  I  tremble,  oh,  stay. 

You  're  my  joy,  oh,  my  love,  and  my  fear ! 

If  you  wish  me  to  go  now  away. 

Tell  me,  why  do  you  pass,  love,  by  here? 

June  2m,  1865. 


WHILE  KXOCKIXG  AT  A  DOOR. 


I  'ye  my  father  and  motlier  now  lost^ 

And  my  first-born  yet  young,  and  I  dwell 
On  this  earth,  where  all  Xature  for  me 
Tolleth  the  knell. 

'Twixt  my  brothers,  in  childhood,  I  slept  ; 

We  were  three  little  birds  with  no  fears. 
Alas  !  Fate  their  two  cradles  has  changed 
Into  two  biers. 

I  haye  lost  thee,  0  daughter,  I  loyed. 

Thee,  who  fillest  now  all  the  deep  gloom 
Of  mj  days  with  the  light  that  doth  come 
Out  from  thy  tomb. 

I  haye  soared  and  descended  again, 

In  my  sky  I  'ye  seen  light  and  shade  rest ; 
I 'ye  worn  purple  and  sackcloth;  the  last 
Suits  me  the  best. 

I  haye  known  the  deep  passions  of  earth, 
I  haye  found  the  dark  shade  in  Loye's  rays^ 


198  WHILE  KNOCKING  AT  A  DOOE. 


I  have  seen  winds  and  waves  pass  away, 
Hours  and  days. 

O'er  my  head  the  wild  ospray  doth  flit; 

They  have  scorned  all  my  labors  till  now; 
'Neath  my  feet  is  dust,  wounds  in  my  heart. 
Thorns  on  my  hrow, 

I  have  tears  in  my  sad,  pensive  eye. 

And  my  robe 's  tattered  all  in  this  gloom ; 
On  my  conscience,  I've  naught  —  I  await  — 
Open,  thou  Tomb ! 

June  2m,  1865. 


YAXITY. 


What  to  tliee.  0  my  heart,  is  tlie  birtli  of  a 
king, 

And  tliese  ^"ictories,  when  always  they  merrily 
ring 

Joyous  peals,  and  the  cannon  roars  forth  ? 
Each  one  pompously  praising  the  God  throned 
on  high, 

And  at  night  sending  far  to  the  dome  of  blue 
sky 

All  these  starry  sheaves  upward  from  earth. 

On  thy  God  all  alone,  oh.  turn  elsewhere  thine 
eyes, 

For  on  earth,  in  each  thing  here,  some  vanity 
lies. 

And  with  mankind  can  Glory  ne'er  rest. 
Golden  mitres  and  crowns  brightly  shine,  hut 
they  pass, 

They  are  worth  not  a  single  green  hhide  of 
fresh  grass, 
That  God  makes  for  the  swallow's  soft  uest. 


200 


VANITY. 


The  most  greatness,  alas,  does  most  nothing- 
ness hold ! 

And  the  shell  reaches  sooner  the  obelisk  old 
Than  doves'  nests,  hid  by  flowering  blooms. 
And  by  death  is  God's  union  with  monarchs 
e'er  shown. 

For  His  cross  makes  the  top  of  their  bright 
golden  crown. 
And  His  temple  is  paved  with  their  tombs. 

What !  of  all  our  towers  and  castles  no  trace  ? 
And  of  Bonaparte,  Mahomet,  Caesar,  each  race, 
Naught  that  falls  not?  All  vain,  worldly  toys? 
Oh,  dread,  darksome  abyss,  where  man's  mind 

God  doth  keep. 
At  a  few  feet  beneath  us  a  silence  so  deep. 
On  the  surface  above  so  much  noise ! 


June  28th,  1865. 


CONTENT  WITH  THEE ! 


When  von  speak  to  me  of  Fame, 
Then  with  bitterness  I  smile ; 

For  this  voice  that  you  believe, 
I  have  proved  its  lying-  guile. 

Glory  quickly  is  struck  dumb ; 

Envy's  bloody  torch,  midst  gloom, 
Only  spares  this  statue  when 

At  the  threshold  of  the  tomb. 

From  us  flees  all  happiness, 
Power  falls  with  other  joys. 

And  a  little  soothing  love 

Is  much  best,  and  makes  less  noise. 

Naught  I  ask  for,  save  thy  smile 
And  thy  voice,  o'er  all  my  days; 

The  blue  air,  the  rose,  the  shades. 
And  the  golden  sun's  bright  rays. 


CONTENT  WITH  THEE! 


Oh,  I  only  wish  on  earth, 
E'er  in  joy  or  sorrow's  hour, 

Thy  bright  glances,  0  my  star ! 
Thy  sweet  perfume,  0  my  flower ! 

In  thine  eyes,  illumed  with  light. 

All  celestial  from  above. 
Though  I  know  a  whole  world  sleeps, 

Yet  I  only  seek  there  Love  ! 

My  deep  thought  is  like  an  urn, 
'Tis  a  vase  with  liquid  still. 

That  could  fill  the  universe, 
But  thy  heart  alone  would  fill. 

Sing  —  bliss  thrills  in  every  vein; 

Smile  —  I  need  no  other  joys. 
What  to  me,  love,  is  the  crowd. 

With  its  distant,  roaring  noise? 

All  in  vain,  to  break  our  ties, 

Wliile  you  plunge  me  in  joy's  stream. 
Do  I  conjure  up  the  forms 

Of  the  poets,  in  my  dream. 

No !  I  care  not  what  they  say, 

E'er  this  preference  will  I  keep,  — 

To  Fame's  trumpets,  that  awake. 
Thy  sweet  song,  that  lulls  to  sleep. 


CONTENT  WITH  THEE ! 


Should  my  name  be  blazoned  forth, 
E'en  to  heaven's  brow  above, 

Oh,  still  half  of  me  on  earth 

Would  yet  stay  with  thee,  to  love. 

Let  me  love  thee  in  the  shade. 

Sad,  or  serious,  at  least; 
Sadness  is  a  darksome  place. 

Where  love  can  shine  forth  best. 

Angel,  with  thy  sparkling  eyes, 
With  thy  days  all  tear-wet,  sweet, 

Take  my  soul  up  on  thy  wings. 
Let  my  heart  rest  at  thy  feet ! 

May  m,  1865. 


SUNSETS. 


Merveilleux  tableaux  que  Foeil  decouvre  a  la  pens^e. — Charles 
Nodier. 

Calm  and  quiet  eves  love  I.    Yes,  love  I  those 
eves, 

If  they  gild  bright  and  fair,  buried  deep  in  the 
leaves. 

Some  old  mansion's  brow,  frowning  and  proud, 
Or  in  fiery  banks  the  mist  rises  on  high. 
Or  a  thousand  rays  break  in  the  pure  azure 
sky. 

Into  isle-dotted  oceans  of  cloud. 

Oh,  now  look  at  those  clouds,  moving  swift  in 
the  sky, 

Heaped  far  up  by  the  breath  of  the  winds  there 
on  high  ! 

In  strange  forms  do  they  group  all  in  crowds. 
And  at  times,  'neath  their  waves,  a  flash  gleam- 

eth  forth  there 
Of  pale  lightning,  as  if  some  dread  giant  of  air 
Drew  his   sword  from  its   sheath  midst  the 

clouds. 


SUBSETS. 


205 


^Twixt  their  shadows  the  sun  shines  all  brill- 
iantly still, 

And  he  maketli  like  dome  of  rich  gold  on  the 
hill, 

Some  poor  cottage-roof  gleam  wondrous  bright. 
Or  else  long  he  disputes  with  the  mists  the 
dim  sky, 

Or  cuts  out  on  the  grass,  where  his  gorgeous 
rays  lie, 

Spots  like  lakes  fair  and  broad,  all  of  light. 

Then  we  think  we  can  see  in  the  sky,  swept 
away, 

A  great  crocodile  hang-,  its  striped  back  to  dis- 
play, 

With  its  three  rows  of  teeth,  sharp  and  fine. 
On  its  leaden-like  breast  a  gold  sunbeam  doth 
glide. 

And  red  clouds  shine  and  burn,  now  upon  its 

dark  side, 
E'en  like  gilded  scales  over  its  spine. 

Then  arises  a  palace ;   a  breeze  comes,  all 's 
gone  ! 

The  dread  building  of  clouds  crumbles  up,  all 
alone, 

Into  ruins  swift  hurried  and  burned. 
And  it  strews  the  whole  sky,  while  each  coral 
red  tower, 


206 


SUNSETS. 


With  its  top  pointing  down,  o'er  our  head  now 
doth  lower, 

Like  great  mounts  that  have  been  overturned. 

And  these  clouds  of  gold,  copper,  and  iron, 
where  dwell 

The  tempest  and  waterspout,  thunder  and  hell. 
That  all  sleep  there  with  murmurings  low  ; 
God  suspends  from  the  sky  every  one  with  its 
gleams, 

As  a  warrior  hangs  from  the  ceiling's  high 
beams. 

All  his  armor,  that  brightly  doth  glow. 

All  now  fades,  and  the  sun  from  above  falleth 
down. 

Like  a  great  globe  of  brass,  that,  on  fire,  is 
thrown 

Once  more  back  to  the  furnace,  its  home. 
As  it  falls  on  their  waves,  that  its  shock  parts, 
it  makes. 

To  the  zenith  jet  out,  now  in  fiery  flakes, 
All  the  clouds'  burning,  crimson-hued  foam. 

Ever   contemplate   heaven,  when    Night  falls 
above, 

At  all  times,  in  all  parts,  with  ineffable  love; 
Try  to  see  through  and  pierce  those  veils'  folds 
from  afar ! 


SUXSETS.  207 

There 's  a  mystery  deep  'neatli  the  beauty  of 
all,  — 

In  dark  Vwuter,  when  heayen  is  black  as  a 
pall, 

And  iu  Summer  when  broidered  with  many  a 
star. 

Juhj  1st,  1865. 


THE  EXD. 


